#i never felt the need to make another inquisitor
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baphometsss · 5 months ago
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I'm also going kind of insane over the romance description for Solas in the customise Inquisitor section of the CC. Like what do you mean 'even the Dread Wolf did not know what it would mean to fall in love'?? I'm frothing at the mouth!!!!
I mean, now it's had a few months to stew, it actually makes perfect sense. Solas doesn't seem to forge relationships in the same way as an elf as he did as a spirit. We know he loved Mythal and Felassan, but his relationships with both had rather different dynamics. Mythal had known him for the longest, and understood his spirit nature better than anyone. They spent a long time reflecting each others' spirits back and forth. Felassan we can assume was another Wisdom spirit (going by his eye colour), which once again tracks because Solas seems to connect with other Wisdom spirits very intensely. Nonetheless, there's a distance between them; they need each other and they share a common cause, and although Solas loved Felassan dearly, he was still able to kill him in The Masked Empire.
However, the thing that these two relationships have in common is that they both relate to Solas's spirit-self. All the dynamics are some kind of echo of how he behaved and related as a spirit. The person he is at the beginning of DAI is who he has been for a very long time. He is, despite everything, a little stagnant.
With the Inquisitor, he literally doesn't have a choice but to change, to connect not just as a spirit but as a man. Prior to that though... remember how spirits are asexual, like Cole is if you don't make him more human? Yeah. I don't doubt that Solas had physical relations with others after manifesting, but I think the feelings would've been absent as he doesn't connect romantically with them; a legacy from his spirit self, which he clings to dearly.
Weirdly enough, I think that this lack of romantic or relationship experience is what the romance in Inquisition actually hinges on. He's only able to take that chance specifically because he doesn't know what romantic love feels like. He may be a manifested Wisdom spirit, but this is something that must be experienced to be understood. He takes the chance in the end because he doesn't know how deeply it will affect him. Also as Wisdom, he can't help but be curious anyway. Clearly he underestimated how much of an impact it would have on him. He didn't expect to be known and loved so fully for who he was, after a life of being forced away from his purpose, who he truly wanted to be. To be given the space to exist as Wisdom is one thing, and certainly it would've been enough for him to maintain his love for his friends in the Inquisition alone, but to be loved for it? To be able to express these new, very earthly and yet somehow still spiritual feelings of love? Everything lining up, singing the same? Things he could never have experienced as a spirit? It's a union of the spirit and body that he likely never felt before. That has to have been overwhelming, a beautiful gift he never expected to receive. 'In all Thedas I never expected to find someone who could draw my attention from the Fade'--quite literally, 'I never thought I would want such an earthly thing'. I'm not surprised he almost threw away his plans for it. It's like a whole new world opening up.
It also makes his 'I would not have you see what I become' line more poignant. He doesn't want this beautiful, unique thing he's found to be marred by the actions he will take. He doesn't want his heart to see the wounds in his soul. So when the Inquisitor says they want to join him, it literally stuns him. When he warns them that he's got a lot of terrible things waiting for him in the Fade, it's his last, weak attempt to make them reconsider before they see the wounds on his soul laid bare. By responding that it won't be so bad if they're with him, the Inquisitor is also saying that being together will heal him, that those wounds will not be so terrible when shared.
That line from the elven poem Trick wrote from Solas to Lavellan: 'do not be sad, my heart, our love's endurance is a blessing, our love will be our joy' everything is so new to him brb crying :'<
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gffa · 1 year ago
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I'm going through my screencaps from Inquisitor: Rise of the Red Blade and it really kills me that I can't recommend this book to more people because it's from the point of view of a character falling to the dark side, so on the surface it comes across as very Jedi critical, but as someone who constantly keeps a hawk's eye out for what the other Jedi say and do so I can put it in my citations project, let me tell you, this book drives me absolutely up the wall with how much I was handed on a silver platter for how it's structured. It's a book that's set from the point of view of a troubled young Padawan, Iskat Akaris, and everything in her thoughts is about how she does try to let go of her anger, which she finds very difficult, but she also constantly craves battle and violence and seeks to find ways to justify that. She's offered by multiple people to find avenues to help her, but she always turns away from them, because they're not exciting enough for her. She never tells anyone directly of her struggles and any time another Jedi expresses support, somehow it's never good enough, she assumes it's not real empathy (because she thinks they wouldn't agree with her feelings--she doesn't want to be an archivist, she wants to fight, she doesn't want to take a regular position with the children in the creche--despite that she was really good with them and felt calmer afterwards--because she wants to be out in the galaxy fighting), and when she makes mistakes, she looks to justify why it wasn't her fault (she doesn't actually care about the civilians her actions hurt, she just cares that Adi and Yoda are telling her she has to be more careful). She's offered mentorship multiple times, by Jocasta, by Josk, Master Klefan talks to her frequently, Adi and Yoda make a point to tell her that two specific Masters are available to speak to, the Council offers her a position in the creche because they think she'd do well there--but that's not the excitement she craves, it's not the admiration for her battle skills that she wants, so she turns away from it. She's offered a position that's clearly very dear to them, it comes with multiple compliments and that they say it's meant to be beneficial to her as well (with the implication of how much it calmed her), and yet she sees it as a demotion, because it's not a mission with action and fighting. Everything that is the opposite of what a Jedi needs to seek. And it's done with such deftness to Iskat's point of view that, if you're not paying attention, it might seem like she is justified in these things. But when you look beyond her, you see how hard the Jedi are trying to help her, how many hands they hold out to her, and I want to write entire essays about this book but arrrghhhh I'm probably the only one who read this book in this specific way and who still has tolerance left for unreliable narrators who unfairly criticize the Jedi, but I can see the consistent pattern of how compassionate they are beyond it, so I feel I'd just be yelling into the void even more than I usually do, so instead I just sit with my feelings, like, I enjoyed this book through this lens, but it's a lens that scrapes a lot of people's nerves raw, so I can't blame them, but also oh man there's so much to chew on in this book and I just have to delete these caps as I make my way through my backlog. Arrrghhh.
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goosewriting · 2 months ago
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could I request a inquisitor!cal x reader where the reader is a new inquisitor and cal offers to give them extra training and cal tries to flirt and be romantic with them? I feel like this could be kind of cute and have a little good ol tension :)
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summary: after reader joins Cal as an Inquisitor, they discover a new way to deal with the ugly parts of the dark side.
relationship: Inquisitor Cal Kestis x gn!Jedi!reader (turned inq!reader)
warnings: 18+, mention of a spider but as a metaphor, dubious consent but like regarding the force, manipulation, violence and injuries, mentions of death, suicidal ideation of you squint
word count: 4.8k
A/N: “cal tries to flirt and be romantic” you said, and i went “ofc! here’s cal and reader pining over each other, angrily :)” i mainly focused on the good ol’ tension tbh, and i combined it with another inq!cal that many asked a second part for, but i hope i made your request justice nonetheless :’D 
this is a sequel to loth-cat and mouse, so make sure you read that one first!
[all masterlists] 🪶 [star wars masterlist] 🪶 [ao3]
(english is not my first language. constructive criticism and grammar corrections are very appreciated!)
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
After weeks of getting chased from planet to planet, with Cal always one step right behind you, it all comes down to one final encounter. You’re beyond exhausted, your senses completely numb and on fire all at once. You’re barely holding yourself up, not having slept or eaten properly in a concerningly long time. Body, mind and soul; all of you is worn out, and you feel like there’s nothing else you have to give. 
You stand on one side of the abandoned street, surrounded by ruins of a once prospering city, now overtaken by vegetation and little critters that you hear scurrying in a nearby bush. Holding your lightsabre in front of you with both hands, trembling, you square up as you hold Cal’s harsh gaze. 
Standing on the other side of the dusty path, he stands as leisurely as ever, his unignited weapon hangs loosely from one of his hands at his side. He calls your name as he slowly walks towards you.
“Think about everyone who’s wronged you, us!” he taunts you, taking a second after every step to gauge your reaction. “About the clones that turned on us. Our masters who left us behind. The galaxy turning their back on the Jedi. Now they are a threat to the peace brought by the Empire, so in Lord Vader’s name, we have a new purpose, to get rid of them.”
“Do you really believe that Imperial propaganda nonsense?” you ask, taking one step back as he keeps approaching. Your throat is awfully dry.
“I serve Lord Vader,” he says, his free hand extended to point at you. “And when all this is over, you will too. And you’ll thank me for it, for the power you will be able to acquire thanks to the dark side. Power like you’ve never felt.”
In the blink of an eye, his weapon activates with a whirr, the red column painting the surroundings with a crimson hue. Like it’s covered in blood, you think. My blood. Cal charges at you, and you retaliate, your sabres clashing once, twice, then he Force-pushes you backwards. As you stumble to keep your balance, he knocks the weapon out of your hands. Placing one foot behind yours, he grabs you by your shirt and pushes you back, making you fall and hit the ground. For a second, the impact knocks the breath out of your lungs, and you lie underneath him with your mouth open like a fish choking on air. 
Turning off his sabre, Cal kneels down beside you, still holding you down.
“Don’t make me kill you,” he says, strangely amused. “We’ve come this far.”
“I don’t need your pity,” you spit back, pushing yourself off the ground but he holds you down and you grunt. You want to give in so, so badly. But you hold yourself up on your elbows. “Why are you so insistent? Just kill me and get this over with.”
“Pity? Is that what you think is happening here, that I’m trying to save you?” Cal laughs, and you blink as the sun from behind him blinds you momentarily. Then he leans in a bit, shielding you with his shadow. "Here’s a secret: this isn’t for you. It’s for me. Unlike the Jedi, I’m allowed to be selfish. To want things. To have things. And one of the things I want is you.”
“What, like a trophy?” you scoff.
“Something like that.” 
You try to push yourself up again, to no avail. Your eyes dart to the side where your sabre landed, and you wonder if you can summon it to you without him noticing. Given how weak you are, probably not. Cal lifts his gaze from you to look around, scanning the surroundings for a moment, blowing a raspberry like he’s getting bored. Then he brings his attention back to you. 
“Aren’t you tired of being alone? Tired of running? Hiding? Just so tired of everything,” he asks, and it sounds almost genuine. You feel your resolution falter, your upper arms starting to tremble, aching from the effort, begging you to just let yourself fall back completely. 
“ I- I am,” you breathe.
After clipping his weapon to his belt, Cal holds his now free hand over your face, and you can feel a shift. A cloud starts shrouding your senses, your sight. You take in a sharp breath as fear starts settling in, but it's quickly replaced with something else. Something warm and fuzzy, like a comfortable weight grounding you.
“Come with me and you can forget all about it,” Cal demands, his voice gentle. “At my side you will always be fed. Safe. You’ll be untouchable. I’ll make sure of it.”
Your eyelids are starting to feel heavy.
“That does sound kinda nice,” you whisper, closing your eyes. 
“Right?” The weight pushes a little harder. “Don’t fight it. Come with me. Give in.”
Your eyes shoot open, brows furrowed and a sheen of sweat on your forehead from the effort.
“N-No, I can’t.”
But it’s too late now; the sliver of fog has spread throughout your body, dulling out all your thoughts, weighing down your limbs. 
Suddenly, the warmth becomes burning hot, and you squirm, breath quickening when you feel the ever present sting on your skin starting to turn painful.
“I need you to say it,” Cal says, his hovering hand inching a little closer to your temple. “Say you’ll come with me.”
The weight sitting on your gut and limbs starts growing thorns, digging into your flesh, and you yelp. 
“I’m not going with you,” you manage to say through gritted teeth, one of your hands clawing at his gloved wrist on your chest. “Kill me, Cal. Promise me you’ll kill me.”
You see him swallow at the use of his name, and his scowl deepens.
Your brain is so fogged up, you can't form one more coherent thought. All you feel right now is pain, despair. You know it was just a matter of time before the claws of death would catch up to you. You are tired. So so tired.  
“I can make the pain go away,” Cal promises, leaning in, and if you had any sense left in your body, you’d feel his warm breath tickle your ear. “Just say the word.”
What little resolution was left in you leaves your body like a small puddle of water immediately evaporating off the hot permacrete in the sun. You groan, swallowing thickly. 
“Okay. Take me,” you croak out, barely audible, and Cal does good on his word. The pain ceases instantaneously, the fuzzy blanket wraps around you once more, and your mind is transported into an almost sterile slumber. Finally, you can rest. 
— — — — —
After several days of reconditioning, you get to bleed your kyber crystal and rebuild your weapon. When you walk out of the arena, feeling your new sabre’s still unfamiliar weight in your hands, it’s like your mind and soul have been remade. There's a new type of focus you've never felt electrifying your whole body, your mind strangely quiet, crisp. 
Then it’s time to meet Darth Vader. 
Cal guides you into one of the offices in the Fortress Inquisitorious, your new home. Vader is standing by the window, looking out onto the seemingly eternal stretches of water covering the moon you’re on. When he hears you come in, he turns around to face you. He doesn’t really greet you nor acknowledge the fact you’re new. He just gets down to business, talking about a mission he wants you two to go on.
Your eyes are set on the Sith’s black mask as you listen to his instructions. But it doesn’t take long for your focus to fade as you go stiff when you feel a presence in the Force, prodding at you. It’s unlike anything you've ever felt before: Vader. He moves slowly, almost imperceptibly, like the long legs of a spider testing out the tension on the strands of its web, poking here and there to pinpoint the location of the prey which, the more it moves, the more tangled it will be. In this case, he’s testing out your resolution, your current mental and emotional state, trying to find the tiniest hint of doubt in your heart, so you hold your ground against him.
On the outside there's no change at all. He talks about the mission, mainly addressing Cal, briefly explaining who the target is and where to find them, before handing him a datachip. 
Usually, new Inquisitors get to join a more experienced one only a handful of times. After that, everything you do is your own burden to carry. Learn fast and adapt to live. Or straggle and fall behind, directly into Vader’s blade.
But Cal is insistent on having you at his side, always. He’s unabashedly protective of you, making sure that everyone knows you belong with him. That you’re not to be messed with. And the others seem to respect that, for whatever reason.
It doesn’t take long for you to realise that Cal and you make a good team, actually. The more missions you go on together, the more it feels like you share a connection, anticipating what the other is about to do and handling accordingly. Like you've known each other your whole life. Or maybe like you've met in a different life altogether. You're not sure anymore. 
But as time passes, you can also feel the sharper edges of the dark side starting to cut into you. Every night carries a new nightmare, and every day the whispers in your mind start to get louder and louder, until it’s a constant cacophony of voices and screams playing in the background.
It’s on a mission a couple of weeks after you became an Inquisitor that it catches up to you.
Getting to the target was relatively easy; the former Jedi hadn’t really stayed too hidden, openly using his powers to help others. And word of such things spreads fast. 
The hunt takes you to a temperate planet on the Outer Rim. In any other circumstance, you would have liked to take in the scenery, but there’s no time for that now. Once you land in the settlement, Cal, you and your two Purge Troopers beeline for the last known location of your target.
When you arrive at the central plaza, people make space for you four, starting to gather around or leaving the scene entirely. The Troopers start questioning the bystanders, and Cal calls out loudly for them to hand over the fugitive, threatening them. You scan the crowd, and everyone avoids your gaze, but they don’t move. 
After a few moments, tensions rise to their peak, and someone starts taking shots at you from behind. Panic erupts in the mass of people and they all scramble. Movement from a nearby roof catches your attention. You turn just in time to see a large crate being pushed off the ledge, right above Cal. Lifting your arm, you Force-push it away, and it lands next to a somewhat startled Cal, disintegrating into splinters, its contents of heavy rocks and scrap metal spilling out. 
The crate was enough of a distraction for you that you don’t see the Trooper behind you getting tackled by a bystander built like a wardrobe. Even after the Trooper lost his footing, he gets dragged and pushed into you from behind. You get thrown off-balance yourself for a moment. Turning around, irritated, you take a big swing with your sabre, hitting the local across the chest and he falls to the ground, his clothes and flesh sizzling. But your swing was so big, you also hit the Trooper, who cries out in pain and collapses.
“What are you doing!” Cal calls out you.
The shots continue and you two deflect them as the other Trooper carries the injured one to a nearby building for cover. Once the blaster fire dies down and the dust clouds start to settle, you're left on a deserted street, everyone is gone. Somewhere in the distance you see the target's ship take off, and Cal groans in frustration.
He turns towards you, anger etched into his face. You glare right back. He looks like he wants to say something, but leaves it be, his jaw tensing. He walks to the Troopers and announces you’re all going back to the ship, muttering under his breath that he should have put a tracker on the Jedi’s transport just in case. The injured man walks with a limp, his companion carrying most of his weight. Cal and you walk at the front in silence.
Soon after, you're both at the holotable on the ship reporting back to the Grand Inquisitor. His image trembles with static as it’s projected on top of the half circle table coming out of the side wall in the cockpit. Neither of you really ever wear a helmet, so your faces are both flushed and dusty. 
Cal keeps his retelling short, not mentioning your mishap.
After the call is done, you cast a quick glance to the back of the ship where the men are tending to the injury. Now that you’re taking a closer look and he’s sitting down, you can see his leg has a slash from your sabre, half of the armour plate shaved clean off. The other Trooper is at his side, getting some first aid packet ready. 
You turn back to Cal when you hear him sigh in annoyance.
“Now we have to pick up the trail from scratch,” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That rat is probably already gone off-planet and left the system.”
“You've found him before, you can do it again,” you merely offer, inspecting your weapon like you’re looking for something. Cal chuckles wryly.
“Of course it’s my job to find him. Again,” he deadpans. 
“Yeah, well you're the one with psychometry. Sorry I couldn't be as gifted as you,” you retort in a mocking tone, clipping your sabre back to your belt. When you look back up, Cal holds your gaze for a second longer before speaking. 
“I can take care of myself. I didn't need you intervening back then,” he says, taking a step closer so he doesn’t have to raise his voice.
“Are you kidding me?” you scoff, meeting him half-way. “If it weren't for me, you would have been crushed.”
“Yeah, and thanks to you, my trooper almost loses a leg.”
“Well, maybe this will teach him to have better aim.”
You're almost face to face now, venom in your voices as you snap at each other. He holds your icy glare for a moment, then turns away with a curse under his breath, running a hand through his fiery hair. 
When he turns again to face you, he's a couple steps away, hands on his hips as he looks at the ground with furrowed brows. Then he lifts his gaze to meet yours, lips pressed into a tight line.
“What's up with you lately anyways? You've been messing up more than usual.”
“More than–?” You bring your hand to your chest, taking genuine offence. “Oh I'm sorry, am I not doing good enough for Mister Perfect?”
Cal narrows his eyes and visibly bites the inside of his cheeks, showing that it's taking some restraint to not take the bait and lash out again. He takes a deep breath, squaring up his shoulders a bit.
“You know what I mean. You're… unfocused.”
He looks at you for a long moment, your fists clenching and unclenching at your sides as you look away. Because he's right. You are. But how can you properly convey the horrible things going through your mind? Should you even tell him or will that only make him think you’re weak?
“I'd ask if you didn't sleep well last night, but, well…” he says.
You both know that the nightmares are just part of who you are now. You try to let them pass the best you can. By now you know that the more you try to fight them, the worse they get. And you've both heard each other mumble and cry in your sleep when you had to spend the night in the ship or in a tent when out on a mission. So it's a given that a good night's sleep is a rarity for either of you. 
The dark circles around your eyes have gotten worse in the last days though, you'll admit. It's like everything that's happened has finally caught up to you now. 
“There's just… so much…” you say, pointing at your head, then placing the open palms of your hands on your temples, chest heaving with shallow breaths. “It never stops. The screams, the anger, the pain.”
Your eyes dart up to find Cal’s, and your glare intensifies as a thought occurs to you.
“You. You did this,” you mumble.
“What?” he questions, incredulous. 
“You did this to me,” you say, louder this time, hissing as you stalk up to him, poking him in the chest.
Cal takes a step to the side with a click of his tongue, checking to see if the two Troopers in the cargo hold heard you. They seem to have finished tending to their wounds and are both sitting on the bench, talking to each other in hushed tones, sans helmets. 
“You said you'd make the pain go away,” you say through gritted teeth. “You lied.”
Cal slams his fist into the panel by the door separating the cockpit, and the doors whoosh closed. 
“I saved you,” he spits back at you. “If not for me, you’d be dead in a ditch somewhere.”
“In case it wasn't clear, that's what I wanted.” You take in a shaky breath, voice growing in volume, unbothered by the two men on the other side of the door. “I wanted you to kill me. You promised me you would. Instead you turn me into this.” You gesture vaguely at yourself.
“I promised and I did. Your old self is dead. This, as you say–” He mockingly imitates your gesture. “–is thanks to me. You were like a scared kid, running around in circles, and I made a warrior out of you.”
“Good grief, Kestis.” You let out a wry chuckle with raised brows. “You have a real hero complex, you know that? It's messed up.”
“I already told you, I did it for me,” he says with an annoyed huff. “It has nothing to do with saving you. I'm not trying to be the hero. There is no version of this story where I'm the hero, and I'm fine with that.”
“Are you? Because it looks to me like you're trying really hard to be one. What do you want, attention? Recognition? For the Grand Inquisitor or Vader to tell you you’re a good boy?” you scoff, shooting him a condescending look. “Maybe you are just their little lapdog after all.”
Being the only Inquistor with psychometry at the moment, Cal gets called hound often by the others, insinuating that he’s only good for picking up trails and tracking targets. So your comment definitely hits a nerve, and Cal’s whole face tenses up, brows furrowed so deep you can see the crinkles around his nose. He's on you in a split second, grabbing the shoulder straps of your armour to pin you to the wall with a forceful push. You groan at the impact, never averting your eyes from his. 
“That felt good, didn't it?” he asks after a pause. Your smug face turns into one of confusion. “The voices in your head, they just went quiet for a moment, didn't they?” 
You look to the side for a moment, and the onslaught of horrible thoughts crashes again over your mind, filling up all nooks and crannies. He's right; for just a moment, you forgot all about your own torment.
“Sometimes, the best way to shut up the voices is to project them onto someone else.” He loosens his grip a bit, you feel the relief of your chest armour not digging into your ribs anymore, and you take a deep breath. “But not like this. I'm no hero, but I'm not your enemy.”
A hint of pain crosses his face, the like you haven't seen in a long time. That's when you realise your lapdog comment genuinely hurt him. You're not going to apologise for it, though. Still, your tone softens.
“It's just…” Your shoulders would have slumped forward if not for Cal holding you in place. “It’s just so much, all the time.”
“It's a burden we all carry. The price for the power of the dark side. But you're stronger than all of it,” he says, his hands moving to the sides of your arms to hold you in place as you've started trembling slightly. Your own hands come to his chest for balance. “The voices are loud, so scream right back at them. Scream louder.”
“What's louder than all of this…” You look for the right word, your hands curling into fists on his armour plate. “All this grief?”
Judging by the look on his face, you think he does have an answer, but doesn't offer it. Why, you think, is it something I have to figure out for myself or something? The fact that you're starting to feel the tears prickling at the back of your eyes makes it all worse.
“How do you do it?” you demand to know, hating the pleading sound in your voice. “How do you get them to shut up, even for a second?”
Cal’s head jerks back ever so slightly as he ponders the question, his face distressingly neutral.
“I look at you,” he finally answers. 
“Wha–”
“I promised to take the pain away. I intend to make good on it.”
Before you can ask what he means, he closes the gap between you two, bringing his lips to yours. It’s quick and chaste and for the very short time it lasts, you can only think of one thing: nothing. Your mind went completely quiet, finally. 
When he pulls back and looks down at you, there's something new in his gaze, something akin to fear, scared you'll push him away. But he couldn’t be more wrong. You want to chase it, need the voices to subside if only momentarily. So your hands travel up his chest to hold his face, bringing him back to you. 
Cal doesn't need to be asked twice, and he angles his head to deepen the kiss. You can't help the sound that escapes you, sighing into his mouth, and his arms circle around your back, pulling you as close to him as your armours will allow. Your lips move together, quickly finding a rhythm as you savour each other, the intensity levels rising exponentially. 
As you break apart to breathe, both of you panting, his hands travel down your sides to the underside of your thighs, lifting you off the floor. You hold onto his shoulders, your legs wrapping around his waist as he turns around and brings you to the holotable behind the copilot seat, where only moments before you’d held the holocall with your superior. 
Cal sets you down onto the console, pressing his hips flush against yours, and captures your lips in his once more. He leaves a trail of wet kisses on your jaw and what little exposed neck he can reach that isn't covered by your clothes, intoxicated by the little sounds leaving your lips as he bites and licks over the marks he leaves. Your hands find their way into his hair, and he sighs into your skin, one of his hands on your back to hold you in place and the other on the wall next to your head for support. 
For a moment, all you can feel is the clash of lips and tongues and heavy breaths as you kiss Cal like your life depends on it. And maybe it does. 
When you both start to really feel the lack of oxygen, you break apart, not without giving his lips one last nibble as he pulls back. He rests his forehead on yours, your chests heaving in sync. 
“Did it work?” he asks after a moment, and you can't help but chuckle softly. Your gloved hand cups his cheek, thumb running over his freckles as he looks at you through half-lidded eyes.
“For now, yeah,” you say, expecting him to let you down, but he keeps you where you are. “But the voices might come back again. Can I enlist your services again, then?”
“I'm counting on it,” he says, a handsome smile on his lips that you haven’t seen before. It makes your heart do a summersault and your stomach explode in butterflies, and you know then and there that this man will absolutely ruin you, and you can’t wait for him to do so.
Cal starts leaning in again, but before he can kiss you, the doors suddenly whoosh open. Your whole body tenses up. Looks like Cal’s plan was so effective that neither of you even sensed the Trooper walking to the cockpit. 
“Sir, we–” Even through his helmet you can feel the mortified look on the Trooper’s face at what he’s met with.
“What,” Cal barks as he cranes his head around to look at the man in black. The hand he had on the wall for support comes down as he stands up straight, instead placing it around your thigh to press your leg furhter into his side, as if to underline he's busy right now. The gesture takes you off-guard, and you do your best to glare at the Trooper through the heat that erupts on your face.  
“We, uh, we got word from a surveillance station in a nearby system.” Despite his helmet facing forward, you can sense his eyes on you. “They’ve found the target’s ship. It's being tracked as we speak.”
“Good,” Cal says, and turns back to you to take in your state, a mischievous glint in his eye. He takes his time, the Trooper standing there waiting for orders while your whole body is set ablaze by the look in the Inquisitor’s fiery eyes. Finally, he turns back around. “Send the coordinates to the main console. We’re leaving right away.”
“Yes, Sir,” the Trooper says with a curt nod. He's about to turn around when you call for him.
“How’s uh, the other Trooper doing?” you ask, surprising even yourself. You try to sit up on the console, but the angle has you still half sitting, half lying back, and with your legs in the air you can’t get leverage. You shift awkwardly instead, with Cal still between your thighs, so you immediately give up, dignity be damned. You dare glance up to Cal, who’s looking down at you with a smug grin, head tilted slightly to the side as if asking “got a problem?”. You inwardly curse him out; he’s enjoying your flustered face way too much.
“He’s stable for now,” the Trooper says, and hesitates for a second before adding, “If I may… I think it’s best for him to sit out the next one.”
Usually you don’t care much for the Troopers, but this one standing up for his friend stirs something within you, so you give him a nod.
“We’ll make sure there’s a medical team when we arrive.”
“Thank you,” the Trooper says in a slightly surprised tone. Cal turns his head to look at him, so he’s quick to add, “S-Sir.” He salutes and leaves as he’s typing on his datapad, the doors close behind him and the console at the front of the cockpit beeps.
Now Cal’s attention is back on you and you squirm again. Your sitting position is starting to get uncomfortable.
“Can you let me down now?” you ask with a playful roll of your eyes, and he finally steps back for you to slide off the table and onto your feet. You almost fall, still weak in the knees, so you hold onto Cal for support, who helps you stand on your legs. Taking a step back, you look up at him. “Was that really necessary? I’d rather they don’t see us when… you know.”
Cal turns to the console with a chuckle, checking the coordinates the Trooper sent, and presses a couple of buttons for the nav system to start calculating the route. You sigh with a shake of your head as you look down at yourself, fixing your armour plates that sit a little askew. 
You look up when you feel something on your chin. Cal is holding the unignited end of his lightsabre to your face to guide you to look back up at him. He meets your eyes, and his fiery irises seem to glow even more than usual.
“I let him watch so he doesn’t get any ideas,” he says, stepping even closer to you until you can feel his breath fanning over your cheek, and softly taps the lightsabre on the armour above your heart. “You’re mine and mine alone.”
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A/N2: you know when you read something and you can totally see what the author’s tells are? yeah… i kept shaking my head at myself as i was editing this because at this point my inq!cal has just become “slam me against a wall and make out with me” galore lmao I AM CRINGE BUT I AM FREE RAAH
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cherriesforheaven · 8 months ago
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A needlessly thorough review of DATV so I can move on with my life:
WHAT I LIKED:
The story pacing flows better without all that open world slog from DAI I am not bombarded by 50 side quests that have no baring on anything other than rp flavor
The game is pretty, CC is nice
They gave you far more opportunities to flesh out your Rook's background than in DAI and da2 but it's not as fun has having a mini origin story from DAO
no fall damage and if u run out of a combat zone ur companions follow u too
Hossberg wetlands really remind me of dragon age awakenings and I like the way the blight looks there, it gave me a nice nostalgic feeling for the older games
WHAT I DID NOT LIKE (IN DETAIL)
Voice Acting & Dialogue
It is really hard to be invested in a game that feels the need to recap everything you just experienced from 5 minutes ago, (verging on insulting my intelligence) and the silliest part is while i do hate this I got so checked out after act 2 I needed the recap 
A lot of the dialogue and banter is just empty small talk and meaningless pleasantries that sucked the life out of me, had me longing for the days of hearing Ohgren's beer belches reverberate off the walls in the deep roads:
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 Voice acting is really consistent, I hated it when you never knew how your inquisitor would sound in DAI sometimes too serious for a funny comment or like yelling at Cassandra and cullen over nothing - Rook is more consistent but it comes at a loss of personality every line is uttered in the same annoying tone that had me being like damn can he stfu already (da2 was ideal voice acting for me if they cant deliver that again just go back to a voiceless protagonist)
Me whenever my rook opened his mouth: i was getting violent on that skip button
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The dialogue between rook and their companions holds it back from being enjoyable at all really- here's some examples:
Emmerich's personal quest in act 2: "I want to do this immortality rite it's a very high honor in my order but rook I might die in the process permanently, I am an orphan and afraid of dying" Rook: "You could die?!?! That's awful". In Origins you can have a conversation with Wynn about her inevitable death and respond in a manner similar to rook and Wynn teases you by saying "well i'm not going to live for ever dear" it made me smile and sad about not being able to really help her. Did not feel that way Emmerich though, Im so uninterested in him as a character my response and feelings are "old people die all the time" and then 'wait why the fuck haven't you done this immortality ritual yet instead dragging me over here to collect some flowers"
Companions & Romance
the flirt options aren't all that flirty, its just rook being nice, all the romance content seems behind a 'romance locked in' moment (that comes in so late in the game u already forgot who u were even flirting with at times) so you can't hop ur way from one bed to another before deciding on 'the forever one' (remember when I could ride the iron bull then break up and be with Cullen- I don't think that’s an option here)
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The companions are all pretty forgettable, I did everyone's personal quest (with the exception of Taash tried to kill a dragon for them n failed so bad i just moved on) and forgot there was even an approval system with them or that I was supposed to pick choices for them. It felt like i was on a train going in one direction where it did not matter what I said or did to them they would be fine. It’s like I've lost and gained nothing by doing these quests. The deepest thing I learned about Emmerich is that he is a 50 yr old orphan scared of dying. And it makes me not care all that much about them beyond “I just need you to function enough to get me to the end of the game sure Taash embrace being Rivaini, yes Harding live peacefully w that Titan shit inside you idc… Lucanis..ahh what was ur issue again I forget”
I made Lucanis live peacefully with Spite (stuck as an abomination that's supposed to be as volatile as Anders & Justice) Let Emmerich become a lich and no one batted an eye. Everyone just heehee haw hawing over Emmerich's new skeleton form and I forget about spite a lot unless he comments on something i've killed. Was there supposed to be some moral quandary? to make Emmerich a lich I had to "kill off" Manfred... the walking skeleton who might as well have been a rock with a pair of googly eyes attached to him for all i care
I don’t want to help Bellara light funeral pyres in a puzzle game play style that isnt a deep message about death. I want Aveline's speech about reading her favorite book to her dying father after hawke lost thier mother.
For Neve's romance, it took the whole world falling part and everyone dying for her to kiss me for a 2 time and then pity fuck me and afterword she’s like I’m leaving don’t want to be too distracting. All these lines carry no weight like bad actors w no chemistry
jaw on the floor comparing this (first time I said "i love you" to neve)
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to the first time I said it to cullen and how he treats u before the big battle
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I get that she isn't lovey dovey but at 70 hrs in and 2 kisses it feels like she just dont love me </3
Combat - as a spellblade mage*
combat was this weird mix of sometimes fun sometimes a new and unique form of human torture (wydm press shift 4 times n hold down e then press V C and 2 IM ON A KEYBOARD!) Once u make it past level 20 u are immortal but ur enemies are sponges I dreaded every single dragon fight despite that being my favorite thing to do in DAI. Don't ever want to see another Ogre in my life they body me into corners that hitting space can't save me from.
At some point u just gotta run around the place a lot hoping ur companions can do the damage for you bc the mobs aren’t interested in them at all. i was spamming 2 n slamming on that E key hopping it would be over n done with already, If i wanted to play a flashy monster hunter game, well then id play tw3 at least that combat is fun.
Lore & Story building
At the end of Trespasser, I was under the impression that the conflict in DATV would revolve around solas amassing an army of elves all over Thedas to rebel against the Evanuris. He had a whole network of Spies working against the Inquisition and the Antaam, and planned to restore the elven people, upend their religious views, and try to tear down the veil as a way of atonement. So I was understanding of there only being 3 import choices ( 1- who you romanced, 2- Save or redeem Solas 3- Disband or Keep inquisition). But that's not the story we get; instead its this??
The veil jumpers are like engineering mages with no ties to Solas beyond being an elves. There is no religious struggle they just seem to accept that these Gods have always been evil and need to be stopped. Solas is just a one man army trapped in the fade off screen for like 70% of the game. Should I have just kept the inquisition around after all? The only mention I got was my disbanded inquisition choice was inky going "my name still carries weight in southern thedas" and it seemed like disbanding or keeping it would have an affect on how easy or hard it would be to stop Solas but no it really doesn't at all
“It doesn’t feel like a Dragon Age game”
A criticism I rarely take seriously because that can mean so many different things? Like what is it the atmosphere? The aesthetics? The “dArK fAnTasy” none of these things have ever stayed consistent in any dragon age game. And I’d say DA franchise lost its teeth/edge when dai rolled around it was pretty light in the world of dark fantasy
However…theyre kinda right this time around....
It doesn’t feel like a dragon age game because they removed a lot of the lore your were exposed to in the previous games to the point where this might as well be another game all together. (i am not even a lore nerd but i do need something there to feel like i am in a dragon age game)
Yes the city is named Minrathos you were are told of its cultural significance and history as the seat of the empire but looks like a shittier version of kirkwall (and I kept getting lost going around the map so I hated it even more for wasting my time) Honestly the city felt super high tech and out of place in a fantasy setting imo, I missed it when everyone lived in a wooden hovel in the middle of the woods.
There is no reason for the venatori to follow Elgarnan and ghilian'nan or for the Qunari either but it all gets hand waved away with "they offered us power"
Reading the Inquisitors letters made me feel like im in a spinoff game and the real story is happening somewhere else. And sad to like baby take me with you!! i want to save u from this nightmare
A lot of the factions are sanitized to the point of being boring Darvin's little 'we're warden we don't do blood magic that's just not right" baby I let the wardens sacrifice elves to Corphyeus 3 weeks ago :/
Qunari Culture
So the whole reason you were fighting the Antaam in DAI was because they believed you were in cahoots with Solas, who's whole plan to them is to sow chaos and disorder- that is a HUGE no no in the Qun so they see it as their sacred duty to stop you. The Qunari we meet in DATV mindless npc mooks who attack you not because your with Solas but because the Evil elven gos promised them uhh power n shit for stopping you. Like I know I did not just waste my time in DAI reading about how egalitarian the Qun is everyone is like a Hive, they depend on each other so selfishness is rooted out so wtf was going on in Treviso with these guys. A whole culture decimated down to being darkspawn mobs part 2
What made me never want to play another DA game ever again:
Everything you ever did in Orlais, Ferelden, Kirkwall is pointless. No matter what the last letter from the Inquistor is "yeah the blight reached the south Denerim is gone, ferelden is blighted beyond repair, we took back Skyhold but barely. The Venatori disposed of whoever you put in charge of Orlais and there's giant leviathans rising out the sea in Ostwick"  There is no conclusion to this it's just the state of the world now
I cant even pretend my non solas romanced Inky is happy and safe after all this? My hof and Alistar might as well be dead for all that it ever mattered. I get that the devs wanted a clean slate but did they have to burn my house down and salt the fields? It feels so spiteful and mean, like they wanted to make a whole separate game and tack on the "dragon age" title to it for money. If they're not interested in the lore or world building why should I? it made me fully checked out of the rest of the story. Like damn idgaf about elgar'nan and the other one give me back Redcliff
TLDR I dont know if i should be sad that I still care about this or glad its over either way im blocking all datv tags n moving on
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niobiumao3 · 5 months ago
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So like. re: the Inquisitor Phee/CX-Tech thing.
Grabbing younglings, we see them do it a lot. And there's one they get. But they get stranded/stuck with her a while. And finally they get back. But now it's been, like. A month. And they're attached. And they have to give her back.
Attachments. etc.
He knew in that way he’d come to accept was normal for them that she was far past thinking about doing it and on to actively making plans. In fairness, he was also actively making plans, though he liked to think he’d been less obvious about it. This was, it turned out, wishful thinking on his part. “How far would we need to go,” she said one night in the darkness of their quarters. She was curled on her bunk, he’d been lying on his rack without sleeping. He considered that. “To the outer rim. Wild space would be preferable, if we can locate a planet or port, but the outer rim is sufficient to begin with. A cycle, at a minimum, in the least connected place we can find.” Numerous scenarios played out in his head. “The larger issue would be them tracking her in the Force.” “I can handle that.” “You can?” “I can.” Interesting, if not entirely unexpected: finding people in the Force was empathic, and Phee was empathically inclined. She probably would be the most capable of hiding herself and another if she needed to. She continued, “But what about your tracker? I can’t do shit about that.” “I determined how to block its signal some time ago.” “Will that be enough?” “It is a temporary solution. We will need to have it removed, which will require either an appropriate facility, or a skilled surgeon willing to stay quiet.” She sighed. “That’s a lot.” “It is. But it can be done.” “Okay. So we need to figure out how to get her out, unnoticed long enough to get clear.” “Yes. We can take a Dagger or a [] to start, but we must abandon whatever we flee in and obtain something less conspicuous at the first opportunity.” She was silent a time. Then, “I can’t believe we’re talking about this like it’s even possible.” “Of course it’s possible. Certain, no. Probable…perhaps not even that. But when it comes to us, working together, I have come to accept we are quite capable when we are determined.” He heard the sound of her moving about, felt her crawl into his rack with him a handful of seconds later. She was small enough to make it workable, if a tight fit in which they had to curl around one another. “I just.” She stopped, swallowed. “I can’t let them keep her. I can’t let them do to her what they did to me.” One of her hands drifted to the scar on his chest. “To us.” He set his chin on top of her head. The mere thought of Djoura enduring what either of them had was unacceptable. “Agreed.” She shuddered, gripped him tightly. She didn’t need to say aloud what they both knew: death would be the kindest thing to happen to either of them if they were caught. Yet the notion that a little girl would be subject to the same thing was more than enough to outweigh the risks to themselves. Tech could never have forgiven himself for not at least trying. But they wouldn’t merely try. They were going to succeed. Because they had to.
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chanafehs · 4 months ago
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1 and 8 for your inquisitor
Have they met their partner's loved ones?
Yes of course! Asma met all of Cullen’s immediate family after the events of trespasser and conversely Cullen has been sort of adopted into Clan Lavellan as their token human. He's good at carrying things and distracting children when their parents need a break. It's also useful to have another warrior on hand. Asma's nan tries to feed him all the time and her brother Ashura loves him as the brother he never got, finally someone who actually likes chess. Asma was pretty nervous about meeting Cullen's family, it was even more intimidating than the winter palace in her opinion - she doesn’t really know how healthy family dynamics work and friendly conversation is a bit alien to her when there isn't an ulterior motive. Asma can’t pretend she doesn’t care and hide her unease under snarky comments, she actually has to try. His family is a bit unsure of how to interact with her at first, yanno former inquisitor and herald of their prophet, but they all accept her as one of their own swiftly. I think Mia appreciates having someone who is just as blunt as she is around.
8. What is one sweet gesture they do for one another on a daily basis?
Asma has her own very strict skincare regimen so it was only a matter of time before that began to bleed into Cullen’s nighttime routine. She has special creams and oils she either learned how to make or imported from her clan that she shares with him. It seemed way too fancy for him at first, but he had to admit he loved how smooth his face and skin felt afterwards. Whenever they stay with the clan in the Western Approach she’s always hounding after him about his sun salve too, but deep down Cullen knows she’s just trying to help him (and he remembers how bad his sunburn was the first time. Larry the lobster over here). As for Cullen he genuinely loves brushing and maintaining her hair, it reminds him of what he did for his sisters as a child, and was the one that asked to do it. Asma canonically has very long hair before the events of trespasser and he noticed how much her bedtime routine could be shortened if someone else was doing her hair, so he does. He applies her oils, always brushes it through, sections it off, and leaves it in a nice braid every night before they sleep. Also? Very good at massages.
Thank you!
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jo-harrington · 4 months ago
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Luminous Beings - Episode 9: Inner Starlight
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Art by @monologichno || Beta Read by @undead-supernova Part of the @eddiemunsonbigbang
Summary: Eddie, Thalia, and their friends embark on a mission to save Wane. But will they succeed? Or have they bitten off more than they can chew?
Word Count: 13.8k
Pairing: Eddie Munson x OFC (Thalia Trieste)
Warnings/Themes: Star Wars AU, Fluff, Angst, Humor, Romance, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mention of Alcohol and Substance Use, Minor Canon Inaccuracies/Adaptation, Galactic Politics, Mention of Death, Vague References to Order 66 and the Jedi Purge, Discussion of the Force, Use of Force Abilities, Abstract Spirituality, Light and Dark Sides of the Force, Canon Typical Violence and Injury, Happy Ending/Hope
Note: Final chapter and I want to give a big thank you to my fellow team member on Team #029 @monologichno for being a great artist and partner in this, to @undead-supernova for being a great beta and for encouraging me to become a better writer with your advice. This project, as I've said before, was in the works for a while and was such an undertaking/labor of love but I've come out on the other side both a better writer and storyteller from having done it, as well as inspired to keep writing.
Thank you to everyone who read as I posted, thank you to the EMBB Mods for hosting such a wonderful event--my first Big Bang!--and anyone who reads well after I hit post. I really hope you enjoyed it.
Luminous Beings Masterlist - Jo-Harrington's Masterlist
Please do not interact if you are not 18+.
Thank you for reading. Enjoy!
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Hyperspace, 10BBY
As the days went on, Eddie’s dreams only worsened.
Actually, after that first vision, things had settled enough that he had almost called off their trip entirely. Benny, Bob, Thalia, his crew, and even Hoppor, who joined to offer extra muscle, all thought he’d lost his mind when he said that he’d been overreacting.
He’d always had an overactive imagination; it was just a dream and Wane was fine.
"Besides," he told them. "We need to be careful. The Inquisitors found Thalia on Coruscant because we were on Outpost 86. We’ve already been galavanting to Jedha for my lightsaber. Who knows if we were recognized. The more we show up in Imperial-controlled space, the more we tempt fate.”
But the next night, he had another vision, and this time he saw things from his uncle's eyes.
Steev paced back and forth as he asked Wane questions. Interrogated him. And Eddie could hear Wane's muffled voice but couldn't make out what he said. His uncle spoke calmly, answered the inquisitor's questions as best he could. But with each answer, the younger man would grit his teeth and ask another. Clearly Wane wasn’t giving up everything he knew.
The vision itself wasn't so bad, but it confirmed that they needed to intervene to save Wane before it got worse.
And it certainly did get worse.
It was the first night aboard the Stranger Mantis, rocketing through hyperspace towards Bracca, towards Wane, that Eddie woke up screaming once again.
Pain had wracked through his body—Wane’s body—as Steev stood before him, hand outstretched. And it wasn’t a dull and persistent pain; it was sudden, hot, and burning. The power of the Dark Side was as unforgiving as the one who wielded it, and it intensified by the second as Steev’s leniency grew thinner, alongside his patience. 
"This can all be over if you just tell me what I want to know," Steev said menacingly, fingers splaying wider as he took careful, calculated steps towards the older man. His helmet sat in his other hand, curling with a punishing grip.
Eddie felt the sweat drip down his uncle’s forehead and the tears build in the corners of his eyes. But Wane never cried, never begged, and certainly never told Steev any of the information he knew. He endured in silence, like he had for his whole life, and instead Eddie was the one to expel the anguish that wracked his body as he woke aboard the Mantis.
Wane finally spoke the next night, finally giving into the pain. Four words. “I don't know anything." It was enough to earn a backhand across the cheek that broke Eddie from his sleep, clutching his own as the sting transferred.
He was livid, pacing the length of the ship as he ranted to the only souls who were awake. Benny and Thalia.
“He’s an old man!” he hissed. “Torturing him, hitting him. They’ll break his jaw before they get an answer. He doesn’t know anything.”
“They’d do worse,” Benny explained. “I’ve seen how the Inquisitors treat the people who get in the way of them finding a Jedi.” He gestured to Thalia. “We both have. It’s not pretty.”
“So what?” Eddie huffed. He ran his hands through his hair in exasperation, but ended up pulling on it anxiously. “They’re gonna kill him?”
Thalia couldn’t look him in the eye when she sighed and said, “Killing him would be too merciful.”
Eddie understood what she meant the following night when he witnessed the abject torture that Wane endured.
For almost a week, he’d been seeing these events unfold from his uncle’s eyes; now he was forced to watch from outside of Wane's body. He was confused for a second, then wondered if it was some mercy of the Force itself to see the agony on his uncle’s face. Or maybe it was more of a punishment.
He tried to move, tried to intervene and stop the scene before him, but he was frozen, as stationary and still as the wall. Maybe he was the wall. 
Wane’s mouth was open in a silent cry as the punishing hand inched closer and closer to him, but he made no noise. He didn’t budge. Steev, though he was inflicting the pain on the poor, old man, looked like he was in equal amounts of agony. His helmet was missing, gloves removed from his hands, no hatred in his eyes; instead he practically pleaded with Wane. 
“Give up,” he begged. “Tell me what I want to know. Then we can both be free.”
Eddie tiredly relayed the visions to the others, who all voiced their concern. Especially Thalia, who offered to try and meditate with him so they could reach Wane together. So they could offer him the strength he would need to withstand the assault.
"He'll be okay," Eddie promised. He denied her again when she asked if he wanted to meditate for himself. "I'll be okay, too. Once we save him."
He kept to himself after that and ignored their watchful eyes and the ever-present worry that lingered in the air like a fart.
Maybe G'areth was ripping them to get Eddie to stop being such a mope.
"He's definitely doing it to try and get you to get up out of that seat." Jeff's voice broke through Eddie's thoughts and he looked up to find his friend sliding into the seat beside him.
He’d been sitting in the galley, picking at a late lunch. He’d tried to have lunch with the others and practically fell asleep into his food. Benny had sent him off to try and get some shut eye, but that hadn’t worked, and soon Eddie was back to poking his food.
"Did...did I say that out loud?" Eddie asked bashfully and pushed the unfinished plate away from him.
"Even if you hadn't, I'd probably still have come to tell you myself so the rest of us could be spared. I don't know what he ate but...phew." He shot a grin at Eddie, who couldn't help the quirk at the corner of his mouth. He wasn't able to manage much more than that. "We're a day away; we're almost there. It'll be okay. We'll save Wane, we'll beat those imps, and we'll escape. Back to band practice on Bogano in no time."
Eddie hummed. "You know, I thought Thalia would be the one to come in here and try to make me feel better."
He knew that his friends had their own worries about this whole situation; their families were back on Bracca too, at risk of being captured and questioned because of their associations with Eddie and Thalia. Bob volunteered to round them up while the others focused on Wane, which lightened some of the tension. But Eddie didn’t need his friends to coddle him while they carried the same burden.
"Excuse me, but I've known you for longer than she has,” Jeff reached out and lightly punched him in the arm. “I was the official Pep Talk Giver of the Dragonborn. After you, of course."
Eddie looked down at his feet.
"Besides, I think she has her own worries that she's working through and she doesn't want to upset you any more."
"Has she been having dreams, too?"
"She's your girlfriend, shouldn't you know?" Jeff teased, then added somberly, "She really hasn't said much today. Wouldn't even tell Dusty and BD a story when they asked. This is weighing on her. She's…blaming herself. She said..."
He trailed off and Eddie sent him a questioning glance.
"What did she say?" he pressed.
Jeff hesitated.
"She said it as a joke..." He wrung his hands together. "I'm pretty sure she did, at least."
"What did she say, Jeff?" Eddie repeated.
"She said that it might be easier just to turn herself in when we land on Bracca..."
Eddie was on his feet and out of the galley in an instant. He beelined straight for the bunk room at the back of the Mantis to find Thalia.
Hop vacated his bunk as Eddie strode in purposefully, muttering a quick good luck as he passed the younger man. The bunks were small, claustrophobic, and stacked upon one another, three bunks high. Thalia preferred the top bunk, but it wasn't so high that Eddie couldn't rest his arms on the edge. He watched as she lay, curled in on herself, and silently stared at her lightsaber.
"So we're both in the same funk, huh?" he asked.
Her eyes shifted towards him, then back, without a word.
"Oh, come on," he tried to keep his tone light, "I'm usually the grump out of the two of us. And it's up to you or the guys to get me out of it. When did you take over the title of 'chief pouting officer' aboard my ship?"
"Benny did," she said matter-of-factly. "He's seen me pout for a lot longer than you've known me. And we are aboard his ship, actually."
"Well carry on with the sad sackery, then." Eddie waited, a wry smile playing on his lips, but she didn't respond. He, of course, wouldn't accept that response, maneuvering up the small ladder attached to the bunks. "Alright, scoot over. I'm getting in."
Thalia protested lightly, but failed to hide her amusement as he shimmied into the overly-cramped bunk to lay facing her. He folded an arm under his head and then reached over and poked her in the cheek.
"What's bugging you, champ?"
She rolled her eyes, but answered, "Your uncle is in danger, you’re barely sleeping, and you're here trying to cheer me up. Doesn't seem right."
"Wane'll be in danger whether you're cheered up or not. I might as well try. Nothing we can do until we get there."
"When did you become the voice of reason?"
"Would you believe that I'm the most level-headed of my crew?"
"No."
"Then I won't lie." He inched closer. "You know, I've always been this...hot head. Ever since I was a kid. I blame my dad. Why? Because I blame him for everything. But there have only been a few people to get me to cool it. Wane, the guys, Dusty. But no one else. Until I met this Star Tours flight attendant who drove me crazy. Really. She drove me nuts. But she also helped me answer a lot of questions I had about my life and somehow, that mellowed me out a little."
"She sounds great," Thalia said with a monotone voice.
"She is pretty great." He poked her cheek again. "She's a pretty great kisser, too." He poked again, trying to get her to smile this time. "Come on."
She batted his hand away but still cracked a bit of a grin.
There was a moment of serene silence as they stared at one another.
"Jeff said you had this stupid idea," Eddie whispered. "That you were gonna turn yourself in to save Wane."
"It'd be better that way," Thalia explained.
"It'd be more cowardly that way," Eddie scoffed. “I say, we go in there, blasters blazing, and we kill Steev and save Wane.”
“I don’t want to kill him.”
“Well, why not? I’m sure he deserves it. He’s been putting my uncle through hell, I’d at least like to give him a black eye.”
“A black eye, maybe. But nobody deserves to die.” She sighed and ran a hand over her lightsaber. “I guess that’s the attitude that made me undesirable to the Jedi Order.”
"Come on! I know you say you're not a Jedi, but I know you've got a lot more fight in you than that. What is this…pacifistic load of bantha shit?"
"I'm not going to let you lose the only family you have left because you think I've got more fight in me!"
"You don’t know him. He wouldn't accept freedom if it meant someone else was in danger. And, believe me, he's going through it, but he's hanging on. He's not giving up without a fight. So neither can you."
Her eyes hardened. "I'm not giving up. I'll put up a fight. Once you and Wane are safe."
"Once Wane is safe," Eddie insisted with a scoff. "And once your old buddy Steev has an attitude adjustment, loses that chip on his shoulder."
He felt his heart ache because the words that fell from his lips sounded so much like his uncle's.
Wane had that matter-of-fact, no-nonsense, right-down-to-business way about him; how many times had he given Eddie an attitude adjustment because he was being a little shit? It was probably why Eddie stopped visiting home as much. He didn't behave as well as Wane had taught him to as he gallivanted about the galaxy, smuggling anything and everything that would line his pockets. He'd do anything to avoid that talking-to, even if it meant not seeing his uncle in so long.
Kriff, that was practically a lifetime ago. There was so much he had to tell Wane; this was a hell of a way to do it.
Thalia reached out this time, sensing his emotions and his thoughts, and laid a hand over his heart.
"We'll save him," she said resolutely. "I promise."
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Bracca, 10BBY
One of the worst things about Bracca was that it was a vast, rotting junkyard. Which meant that there were many places that the Inquisitors could keep Wane. Especially not when they wanted to lure Eddie and Thalia out into the open. But it also worked in their favor; Benny could hide the Mantis amongst the scrapped ships and the inquisitors wouldn’t be aware of their presence.
"If my ship gets scrapped," Benny grumbled as he stalked down the boarding ramp. "You're paying for it."
"We'll buy you a whole new ship," G'areth agreed, but Benny scoffed.
"You can't even buy yourselves a new ship."
Eddie and his friends had discussed all of the places that the Inquisitors and Wane could be as they'd come out of hyperspace. Bracca was home turf. Their families still lived there. They knew it like the back of their hand. But as they walked out into the wasteland of broken down starships, they realized that time and the Empire had eroded the world they once considered their playground.
Even the sky looked different. A vast and endless grey, full of hopelessness, as though they’d never see another sunny day again. Storm clouds hung, ready to unleash a tempest on the unsuspecting world below. There was also a dense fog—smog—that hung in the air. All of the exhaust of the ships that were brought there to die.
The crew of the Dragonborn all felt a collective sense of mourning that this was what had become of their home. Poisoned by the Empire that left it to rot, and by the Republic that let the decay begin in the first place.
D5-TN got uncharacteristically silent as he surveyed their surroundings. It was especially strange for him, having come from scrap heaps like this. He'd been found and rebuilt with the care of his friends; how many other droids had been left behind in these husks? Ships? Would that have been him if luck hadn't been on his side?
"It's okay." Jeff laid a hand on his dome, as if sensing the turmoil overloading Dusty's processor. "Don't think about it. We have a job to do."
Dustin beeped resolutely and, with one final swivel to survey the sea of metal surrounding him, rolled onwards.
Dustin hadn't been the only one with a heavy heart, though. Eddie was bogged down by worry. As they headed towards the Terrace, about an hour's walk from where they landed, he'd spent the time trying to recall everything he could remember from the Force visions. The room where Wane was being held. Any surroundings. Was there anything outside the window? Had there been a window?
He'd been so worried about what was happening to his uncle that he'd missed every other detail of his visions. He felt a bit of hatred burn deep inside of him, hatred and fear. It clouded his mind, and broke his ability to concentrate.
Fear for his uncle, hatred towards himself, fear for Thalia, hatred towards Steev. Hatred towards the Empire. That's what really deserved his hatred, and all the hatred in the Galaxy.
"You're projecting," Thalia whispered as she quickened her stride to fall into step beside him. She slipped her hand into his and squeezed. "Hate leads to suffering. The Dark Side of the Force is driven by those impulsive, reactionary emotions and if you're not careful, it'll lead to your downfall."
"We don't have time for me to meditate the darkness away, sweetheart," Eddie sassed.
"I'm not telling you to banish the dark, I'm just telling you to be careful not to let it pull you into a spiral."
Eddie's brows shot upwards.
"If it wasn't for the darkness, we wouldn't be able to appreciate just how bright the light shines," she said with a sense of finality. She squeezed his hand again and shared her strength, her heart, her hope with him.
Yes. Hope. Light. Why hadn't he thought of that before?
Just like he could feel her, he would be able to feel Wane here, shining bright in the dank hopelessness of this planet. It might take a little while, but it would work. He was sure.
He closed his eyes and started with Thalia.
He felt her unique signature in the force there beside him. Calm and resonant and connected to him. From there, he branched out to the rest of their crew; he'd felt them all before, tested his abilities by identifying the little differences they all had. Even D5-TN had a spark about him. The little sparks traveling amidst his circuits were a different sign of life in the Force. Eddie was astounded by it.
He continued onwards, sensing each soul that lingered in the dark shadows of Bracca, the little pinpricks of inner starlight that created a vast sky behind his eyes. Galaxies formed, nebulous clusters; luminous beings in the darkness. It was beautiful. He'd never thought of his silly little home planet this way before. He knew better now.
He basked in the feeling, until he came across a singularity. A black hole, devoid of all light.
The Inquisitors.
Just like Thalia had said, the darkness had pulled them so deep, so far from the light that they were lost to it.
But there, beside them...one shining beacon.
Wane.
Eddie's eyes shot open.
"I know where they are."
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The Guild Supervisor's office sat on a platform high above the main scrapyard, overlooking the day-to-day operations as the looming silhouettes of decommissioned Star Destroyers stretched far into the horizon.
The only way to get there was by train, which they caught right as the afternoon shift ended. The work-weary scrappers sent cautious glances as they boarded, but they knew better than to ask questions. Eddie was almost grateful that there was an increased Imperial presence here, with so many strangers coming and going. It was another point in their favor as they tried to keep the element of surprise on their side.
D5-TN let out a low whistle as they all huddled together in a corner to avoid suspicion; didn't the Jedi wear cloaks to keep hidden? The Inquisitors and their dark troopers would be much more surprised if they had hoods.
"I don't think that's what their cloaks were for, bud," Thalia chuckled, earning a series of mournful beeps.
"We can just throw a tarp over you though and call it good enough." Dayv held his hand up for someone to high-five him for the joke, but yelped as Dustin's scomplink extended and sent a shock straight into the meat of his thigh.
"Hey," Hop scolded them gruffly. "Cut that out. We need to keep our wits about us. No more jokes, no in-fighting. We go in, we take care of those Imperial Bastards, we get your uncle, and then we get the hell off this damn planet."
Despite voluntarily joining their mission, Eddie knew he was getting nervous to be so far from his daughter.
One by one, scrappers filed out of the car, until their ragtag group were the only passengers left. As the train looped back towards the main worksite, there was a tense silence, fate looming just beyond the durasteel walls of the train.
It would be alright. They would save Wane. They would survive.
The train pulled up to its destination and they all got out. As soon as their heels were on solid ground, Eddie and Thalia's perception shifted with the nearby dark presence in the Force. Eddie realized that this was different than the fear of the simple presence of the Empire on Coruscant, and suddenly understood what Thalia felt when she'd recoiled at the arrival of the Inquisitors.
The Dark Side did not just instill fear; it was fear.
Fear and anger and passion and intuition and power; it was as heavy and roiling as the storm clouds that rumbled overhead. The feeling was so complex and paralyzing, but they didn't get a chance to get lost in the depths of it as blaster fire began peppering them from the path up ahead.
A handful of stormtroopers and Inquisitorium Dark Troopers lined the winding pathway up to the Supervisors office. As the train door slid shut behind them and it departed for its next destination, their group found themselves needing to engage in the fight instead of retreating.
Thalia took a defensive stance at the head of the group, her lightsaber ignited as she deflected bolts left and right. There was no other cover for them, no other place to go but ahead. Eddie was about to draw his own lightsaber and join her, but she was nimble on her feet and quick to anticipate. Each bolt fired at them ricocheted back towards the troopers in rapid succession.
Instead, Eddie joined the others on the offensive, choosing to pull his own blaster from its holster. He took calculated shots at their assailants, instead of the veritable salvo of opposing fire that Benny and Dayv, quick-draws that they were with their combined six hands, unleashed. They all worked as a team, until their path was clear.
"Let's go," Thalia barked, out of breath, as the last trooper dropped to the ground. The blade of her lightsaber retracted with a hiss as she turned back to them. "I'm sure there are more up ahead. And they have the high ground. We'll need to be careful."
"You be careful, kid," Hop huffed as he strode forward. He laid a hand on her shoulder for a second. "Why don't you let the pros handle the bucket heads? You save your strength for the rescue."
The Nikto gestured for Benny and the guys to fall in behind him as he continued up the ramp, and Thalia hung back until Eddie and D5-TN brought up the rear of the group.
"Hop's right," Eddie stated nervously as he took her in. Her shoulders heaved and hands shook. He'd been in such awe of the skill she'd shown during their lightsaber training that he hadn't really realized that her practice, let alone her knowledge, was limited. "You need to take it easy."
"I'll be okay," she assured him.
"You said it yourself, you weren't meant to be a soldier."
"And I'm not trying to be. But I'll protect them. Protect you. If and when I can. I've got your back, and I know you have mine too."
"Still, you need to be careful."
"You're acting like I'm walking headfirst into my own demise," she scoffed. "I am careful. I didn't survive this long just to get shot by a lucky stormtrooper."
However, she listened from that point on and took it easier. She didn’t immediately jump to the front as she had done before; thankfully, there was more cover the further they went, and only one or two shots necessitated lightsaber interference.
Eddie was even able to get his turn to play hero; he traded his blaster for his saber on instinct alone to prevent a sizzling bolt from hitting Jeff. He wondered at the feeling, his connection with the Force coursing through him as the bolt was deflected straight into a trooper’s chestplate. His friends all cheered for them too, with what little time they had to spare for the celebration.
"It's amazing how well we all work together," Jeff laughed. "We could be a little rebel crew for good, give up the smuggling life, and fight the Empire."
But Benny was quick to grumble, "Oh no, no. This is the only time I cross my line in the sand; it's supply runs and non-combat rescue missions only."
"Come on Ben," Thalia cut in. "I've brought you to worse places than this. You like adventure."
"Didn't you tell me once that Jedi don't seek adventures? You wanna fight the Empire full time? I'll let these guys have my ship and spend my retirement slinging hash on Bogano."
The last words were forced out in a grunt as they rounded a corner and found, not only the final squadron of troopers, but the entrance to the Supervisor's Office. Benny shouted "you see what I mean?" before engaging them.
There were more troopers there than there had been along the way, guarding the final stretch to the Inquisitors, to Wane.
Eddie could feel him, right there, on the other side of that door.
If he thought about it, he could see the wry smile and the crinkles at the corners of his uncle's eyes when they'd finally spot each other, after so long. He could feel the pride Wane would have at knowing Eddie came to rescue him.
And so, despite the crossfire and his friends shouting his name, he made a run for it.
Lightsaber swinging in one hand, blaster firing in the other.
The force would protect him.
Right?
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If Eddie hadn't believed it to be a trap before, he was certainly sure it was now.
In hindsight running in here like that was a stupid move, but he'd never really been that good at impulse control.
As the pneumatic double doors of the office shut behind him, his weapons were pulled from his grasp, and he found himself standing there, trapped and unarmed. Face to face with the two Imperial Inquisitors, their glowing red blades illuminating their faces.
"Eddie Moonsun, in the flesh." Steev—Second Brother—greeted, voice hollow.
Although Thalia had refrained from referring to him by name, Eddie had always kept the younger version of the man in mind. Steev: a jovial and caring friend, a Jedi Padawan simply led astray. Even during the visions where he tortured Wane, he’d always been Steev. Now, however, standing before him was the Second Brother in the flesh.
With his helmet still removed, he was stiff. Jaw clenched, and dead behind the eyes. In fact, his eyes looked sunken and red-rimmed, and he was gaunt. A walking dead man. It was a harsh and sudden dissonance, and Eddie recoiled at the sight of him, felt his signature in the force sucking, draining all the light in the room.
Thalia's words about the Dark Side consuming you echoed in his head.
"Right on time," the female inquisitor said with a tight smile, pulling Eddie's attention away from her counterpart. And as terrible as Second Brother looked and felt, she was the more startling of the two. Tall and lithe with red skin that seemed to glow along with her lightsaber, like she was made of that same burning plasma. If Steev felt like exhaustion, she felt like anger. She burned, like a dwarf star fighting as it collapsed in on itself . "Thought you'd never make it."
He looked beyond them, then, to Wane, restrained in a high back chair. If only to spare himself from feeling the terrible darkness they exuded.
Physically, Wane was unharmed, but Eddie knew that his uncle was good at hiding any pain or illness to keep him from worrying. If he reached out through the force, just enough...yes, he could feel the lingering pain and fear within.
Eddie ground his teeth, but tried to keep his cool, as he finally spoke. ”See, I thought we were being fashionably late. Stopped to get a quick sandwich at the Terrace, but the Grill was closed. Sorry Wane, no Tip Yip wrap for you."
Despite the wrinkle in his brow, Wane couldn't help but crack a small smile at Eddie's antics.
See? He was fine. Nothing to worry about.
"I will be taking my Uncle home, though. Old man probably missed his bedtime. So if you could so kindly release him," he continued. "I'll even let you keep my knick knacks. Bartering is pretty common on Bracca, seeing as the Empire doesn't pay that well. Oh, and if you could let your boss know that; a formal complaint."
He choked on the last words.
No, not from emotion; he actually choked on them. He felt phantom fingers constrict around his windpipe as they tipped his head upward, and pulled him until he was practically standing on his toes.
The female inquisitor raised her free hand as he was lifted upwards and she grit her teeth at the effort of using the force. "Silence."
Eddie, not one to be told what to do, still tried to force words out in defiance but his throat got tighter, uncomfortably so. Tight enough to cause spots to appear in his vision.
Well, what a pathetic way to die. He'd spent all this time training and he wouldn't even die in a lightsaber battle. That would've been pretty wizard.
"Thirteenth Sister," Steev hissed at her, but she didn't listen. His tone got sharp. "Iskat. Stop."
The invisible grip was released, and Eddie dropped to his knees, coughing on the great gulps of air that he greedily sucked in. He held a hand to his throat, trying to feel for any physical effects of the Force choke, and looked up to see the two inquisitors growling at each other.
"We need him alive."
"We can go out there and get her. Kill this old man and their friends, kill them both, and be done with this."
"Stand down Iskat. This is my mission. My victory."
"This is your weakness, Steev."
The pneumatic doors behind Eddie suddenly opened with the cacophony of blaster fire from the skirmish outside, and in ran Thalia with impeccable timing. She, unlike Eddie, had only one weapon poised to attack: a blaster, surprisingly.
She fired one pointed shot at the two inquisitors, a fury of sizzling blue light—a stun shot—that Steev was able to dodge, but it sent a shocked Iskat to the ground, unconscious.
”Huh,” Thalia said breathlessly. “Didn’t expect that to work.”
Eddie looked up at her, about to open his mouth to say something snarky, but he didn’t get a chance. Thalia let out a yelp and dropped the blaster. In a flash, her lightsaber was drawn and ignited as a burning red blade swiped downwards.
The two sabers clashed together just inches from Eddie’s face, forcing him to drop to the ground and scramble backwards to avoid having his skull sliced in half.
The atmosphere in the room changed; if Steev had felt dead before, he was alight with anger now. Had he adopted Iskat’s rage as she had been knocked out? Or had his feelings simply been dormant until the sight of Thalia stoked them to an inferno.
"I've been waiting a long time for this," he sneered at her.
"I can't say the same," she replied through gritted teeth.
She pushed forward, knocking him slightly off balance, but he recovered quickly, taking several wild slashes towards her, each slash and thrust of his saber powerful and unforgiving and meant to maim. To kill. But she was quick and purposeful with each block and parry. Economical in her movements to keep herself from getting tired too quickly.
Eddie was temporarily distracted by the blinding flashes of red and blue, and the concussions in Force that reverberated with each strike; this fight was not just physical, it was emotional too. Steev's hatred for Thalia, and Thalia's forgiveness towards herself and towards Steev.
But which one would be strong enough to win out over the other?
However, he quickly remembered the reason they were here. His eyes slid past the two former members of the Jedi Order to his uncle; he didn't hesitate to get to his feet and make his way across the office to the older man.
"Hey Uncle Wane," he greeted, slightly out of breath. "Good to see you."
"What the hell is going on here, son?" Wane muttered.
"I think it's pretty self explanatory, no?" he asked, blindly gesturing behind him and wincing at the sound of the lightsabers clashing again. "But let's get you out of here and I'll explain the rest later, alright?"
He stared at the binders around Wane's wrists and closed his eyes; he sensed the mechanisms within them, and with a wave of his hand, they came undone. 
"Hah," he chuckled and opened his eyes. "Wizard, I'm glad that worked."
"Wha...how did you...Eddric," Wane stumbled over his words.
"I can explain later, let's get you out of here."
He helped Wane to his feet; the older man was a little weak, limping slightly, but was able to stand and walk on his own. 
When Eddie looked back towards Thalia and Steev, though, he grimaced. With thoughts of his uncle's escape momentarily forgotten, he watched the way Thalia maneuvered herself and Steev around. Although Steev was on the offensive, she was purposefully shifting and stepping in such a way, manipulating their fight so his attention wouldn't turn to Eddie and Wane.
To the untrained eye it was just to protect them, but it didn't take much for him to sense her intention; she was accepting this fight was hers and hers alone. Eddie and Wane were just bystanders and she wasn't going to let them become collateral damage.
He could tell it was starting to take its toll on her; even though she was trying to save her energy, she was getting tired, physically and mentally, as she kept splitting her attention between her adversary and them. She wasn't able to get her own strikes in at all, and Eddie didn’t need force abilities or gut feelings to know that if something didn’t change, she would lose this fight.
"There's not a back door to this place is there?" he asked Wane.
"Pretty sure there is," Wane nodded.
"Will you forgive me if I do something really stupid?"
"As long as you don't get yourself killed."
"Ehhh, can't promise that."
Wane sighed for a moment then put his hand on Eddie's shoulder. "I'll always forgive you, and I'll always support your decisions."
"Then you get yourself out of here so you don't watch me make some bad ones."
Wane clapped his hand on Eddie's shoulder twice, then limped towards the back of the office, through a set of pneumatic doors, then another, before they slid shut behind him.
Eddie closed his eyes again, this time to center himself, before he reached out and called his lightsaber into his hand. He blinked and the green blade ignited with a roar.
"Hey, laser face!" Eddie shouted, distracting Steev just enough for Thalia to push his lightsaber away and get a swift, hard, left hook in. Her fist connected with Steev's cheek, sending him stumbling into the center of the room. "Ouch. That was a cheap shot, sweetheart."
"I thought you were setting me up for it," Thalia replied breathlessly and shrugged. She spun her lightsaber and shifted into a more offensive stance.
"Shut up!" Steev shouted and stood, ramrod straight. He shook with rage, and his voice got dangerously low. "Shut. Up."
"Oh, come on," Eddie scoffed at him. "What are you so grumpy about? Not only do you have the opportunity to kill your arch-nemesis here..." He gestured to Thalia. "But you can cross another force sensitive bastard off your list too. This is like Life Day and Boonta Eve all at once. Why don't you calm down, Big Boy?"
Steev was thrown by the name for a moment, but had the audacity to growl at him.
“How about we make a deal?” Eddie continued. “We call it even and you let us go. We pretend this never happened, you never have to see us again, and you can pretend that we’re dead. How does that sound?”
“What if you both give yourselves up,” Steev bit out a counter offer. “Neither of you have to die by my hand, but you’re left to the mercy of the Emperor.”
Eddie sucked a breath through his teeth. “That doesn’t sound like a deal.”
“You’re friends can go free, too.” Steev added.
“Unfortunately,” Thalia interjected. “We can’t accept it. I need to keep them safe, Steev. All of them.”
“Well, then I think you know exactly what your fate will be.” He spun his saber and stood at the ready.
Thalia's eyes shifted past Steev, directly at Eddie, and sent him a questioning glance that asked “was he ready for this?”
Time stilled as he questioned whether or not he was. 
He’d been working on his abilities, but had only trained with a lightsaber for one day. He could trust in the Force, but he was not a fighter. Not a Jedi. This was a real fight, with high stakes—life or death. But Thalia wasn’t any of those things either; despite the fact that she was certainly more knowledgeable in the Force than him, she was at a grave disadvantage here too. It didn’t matter how ready either of them were, they were here and needed to fight, needed to try.
He nodded to Thalia and then stood at the ready.
Thalia moved first. She feigned an attack, causing Steev to attempt to defend and that's when Eddie struck, hard and purposefully. Steev turned quickly, able to slash his saber upwards to deflect with ease. "You didn't think it was gonna be that easy, did you?" Steev taunted as he pushed Eddie away.
"Two against one," Eddie shrugged. "Seems like good odds."
Steev let out a bark of laughter. "Never tell me the odds." He rolled his shoulders back and then struck swiftly with an attack of his own that Eddie was barely able to dodge.
Steev was unforgiving with his strikes toward Eddie and Thalia. Every attempt they made at getting the upper hand against him was useless. They blocked, he struck harder. They struck, he parried. Over and over.
He didn't seem to tire either, his anger and determination fueled his actions. Every time his red saber clashed with one of theirs, a wave of hatred and anger and bloodlust reverberated down their blades and straight into them. Eventually, tired of the game of cat and mouse, he used the force, sending a shockwave outward that sent them tumbling to the ground. 
Seeing Eddie as the weak link between the two of them, he turned his attention to the smuggler and slashed downwards repeatedly, heavy and unforgiving. As Eddie held his saber overhead to defend himself, he felt his arm getting weaker, until he was disarmed altogether. He closed his eyes, resigned to this fate, as Steev lifted his saber over his head, ready for a killing blow. 
He grinned wickedly down at Eddie, before glancing over his shoulder to Thalia as she called out in shock.
"I don't know how you expected to teach this guy to be a Jedi," he jeered. "You only brought him here to die."
"He's strong in the force," Thalia said, desperately.
"His blood will be on your hands, just like the others."
"Strong in the light," she ignored him, and pushed herself back to her feet. "Unlike you."
Eddie was shocked that her distraction worked and Steev’s attention moved to her. She effectively let herself be cornered as he turned his back on Eddie.
"And how would you know?" Steev scoffed at her. "What would you know about the Force? About the light? You’re no one, nothing. You didn't even finish your training; the Jedi didn’t want you. Meanwhile, I've been practicing every day. I'm a master of the force. I'm the Grand Inquisitor's right hand."
"That just means you've gotten cocky," Thalia sneered. "I don't know what I should expect. You always thought you were better than the other Padawans."
"I was better than them," came the growled response. "I was stronger. I was powerful. I survived."
In the blink of an eye Thalia was on her feet. She reignited her saber and slashed it across Steev’s undefended chest, burning through his light armor. He yelped and stumbled backwards, holding his free hand to the singed graze across his sternum.
He looked up at Thalia, dumbfounded, then ground his teeth together and lunged for her.
Eddie watched, rendered immobile from shock, as they were back at it again. They practically danced around each other.  Strike, strike, turn, dodge, parry, strike. It would be exciting to witness if his damned heart wasn't lodged in his throat.
He cast himself forward through the Force, offering Thalia as much strength that he could offer.
But it wasn't enough.
Steev was driven by anger, by pain. Each blow was devastating. Not just emotionally; the beams of plasma sparked each time they crossed. His intention was to kill.
And Thalia was as good as she could be, but not as good as she needed to be to hold her own against him. She faltered once, just once. Let her guard down for a split second, out of exhaustion, but allowed Steev to return the blow that she dealt to him.
The red blade of his saber slashed across her abdomen. Burning, sparking, digging deep into her flesh.
Eddie screamed as she crumpled and fell backwards, hitting the floor with an oomph; he felt, through the channel he'd opened to send her his strength, how much agony she was in. He felt it burn across his midsection too, the phantom, stinging, throb. There was a loud ringing in his ears, his vision doubled; he screamed and tears dripped down his cheeks. He let his own head fall back and hit the ground as her signature in the force got fainter and fainter.
He breathed heavily as grief filled him; they'd made it this far, she'd made it this far. Only for Steev to cut her down in the name of revenge.
And now she was dead.
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind, than he felt that familiar spark of light within her. He could still feel the shallow rise and fall of her chest. It was weak, but it was there.
Beating along with the throbbing wound. He never thought he would be so grateful for pain before, because if he could feel her pain, it meant she was alive.
But her pain, her light, wasn’t the only thing he sensed.
It grew, across his sternum, a dull and shallow cut. Aching and heavy. And beneath that, in the hollow of his chest, right beside his own life force, he sensed another. It flickered, swirled with shadows and darkness; like a cloud-filled night, the shadows shifted and revealed a tiny spark of light that pulsed, unsure, through the Living Force that connected them all.
Steev.
At first, he thought it was impossible, but he lifted his head and watched as the Inquisitor visibly changed before him. The man's posture slumped, as he towered over Thalia's prone, injured form. The hand that held his lightsaber trembled; his whole body trembled, actually. At this distance, Eddie could barely tell what he whispered to himself, the low timbre of his voice reverberated across the room.
"She betrayed me," he muttered. "She deserves it."
There was a beat.
"It's justice. It's what's right."
Another beat.
"Do it. Do it."
Steev beat his free hand against the wound on his chest, causing his pain to flare. 
And Eddie felt it too. Pain. Fear. Strength. They pushed out the doubt that was slowly creeping into Steev’s being. Eddie let the swirl of emotions fill him, but then he felt an intense clarity overtake him. An intense anger. His own anger. All Second Brother had wanted was for Thalia to die; all he’d wanted was revenge. And now he couldn’t do it? Now he was doubting himself?
Eddie let himself sink into his anger as the darkness in Steev fought with the light, and what he saw caused him to spiral further.
The doubt sparked more within Steev. Remorse, uncertainty, and grief. There were flashes of images, memories of Steev doing one dark deed after another without hesitation at the Grand Inquisitor and Emperor’s will. They all culminated in this mission, this hunt. Outpost 86, then Coruscant, now Bracca; slowly but surely his humanity returned to him. And at the end of it all, there was a voice. A familiar voice—Wane—weary and breathless, telling Steev, “it’s alright, you don’t need to do this, son.” The words repeated themself before each bout of torture he was put through.
Even now, with Wane away and safe, the sentiment seemed to stick with Steev, as he battled the deep-seated anger within him.
Eddie knew that his uncle was a voice of reason; he’d been his voice of reason many times throughout the years. His uncle’s love and support had been the only thing that kept him tethered and prevented him from going off the deep-end so many times in this shit-hole of a galaxy.
But Steev had used Wane as a means to get him here. To get Thalia here. And now—after he’d tortured a poor old man, after he’d tried to kill Eddie, and as Thalia suffered at his hand—he was feeling some remorse?
No. Bad was bad, and a villain was a villain. There was no remorse, no redemption.
Eddie, who often found himself in many moral grey areas, wasn't about to watch this bastard change his mind with no repercussions. What was he going to do after he graciously spared them all? Betray the Empire altogether and kill the emperor single-handedly?
There was something deep and raw inside of Eddie that forced him to push himself upright, and get to his feet. Rage, distress, or a desperate need to get Thalia to safety? Maybe all three. He couldn't know for sure. But it told him to take advantage of the turmoil within Steev and to leave his lightsaber on the ground, it told him exactly where to step so his footsteps stayed silent, and it told him to launch himself the remaining distance until he landed on Steev's back, with his arms locked around the Inquisitor's neck.
Steev lurched forward and let out a shocked noise as Eddie taunted in his ear. "Didn't your Grand Inquisitor tell you never to turn your back on an enemy?"
The Inquisitor growled and bucked, lashed out with his lightsaber to try and slash at Eddie, but Eddie held steadfast. He tightened one arm around Steev's neck and wrapped the other around the flailing arm, wrenching it backwards until there was a sickening snap. Steev released the lightsaber and howled at the pain.
Refusing to give up, though, he took several steps backwards, each one propelled by the Force, until he could slam Eddie into the durasteel wall to try and release himself from the grapple.
Once. Twice. Each time his back struck the wall, Eddie felt like the air was forced from his lungs. He tightened his arm around Steev's neck and hissed.
Steev took several steps forward and then rammed himself back against the wall one last time; finally, Eddie released him and fell back limply.
Steev held his uninjured arm out and called his lightsaber back to him, and Eddie did the same, just in time for the red blade to clash with his green one. Sparks flew but both men held strong, neither willing to let up.
"You could've taken the kriffing deal," Eddie said through gritted teeth.
"I'd rather die," Steev grumbled.
Well, Eddie could make that happen if he really wanted.
On instinct, Eddie's leg shot out and the heel of his boot hit the instep of Steev's leg, causing him to falter. The Inquisitor stumbled backwards, letting Eddie stand tall and really take advantage of the upper hand.
On they went, lightsabers clashing. Their fight even took them out of the office, through the pneumatic doors, and onto the landing that overlooked the decaying junkyards below. Eddie’s friends were gone, as were the troopers, leaving the two of them alone to fight as the sky overhead unleashed a torrential rain.
Their boots slid on the slick concrete, but they both held their own.
Being the more injured of the two, Steev struggled and faltered, but Eddie was unskilled in the lightsaber. He could hear Steev’s thoughts echo loudly through the force. They repeated form and stance and attack sequences unknown to Eddie. He felt the prickle of doubt in the depths of his stomach more than once, but then he remembered Thalia's lessons. He remembered his own acceptance to learn these newfound abilities.
He only had his gut feelings, and his trust in the force. And that was all he needed.
With that trust, he reached a flow state. His lightsaber was an extension of himself, every move made on instinct. He was able to resist every time Steev used a trick or a special flourish of his blade to try and distract him. He was able to hold his own against a man who had been raised in the Jedi Order.
To any onlooker, he should've been cut down from the beginning.
A skilled force-user, a Jedi-turned-Inquisitor. Versus a...nothing, a scrapper kid from this wasteland of a planet.
To Eddie, though, it meant only one thing: The Force wanted him to prevail.
It made him feel powerful. He would be victorious. The hero of this story.
Filled with a newfound determination, he pulled his shoulders back and pushed forward. He struck once, twice, and a third time. He gave Steev a run for his money. Didn't give him a chance to recover. Pushed him back further and further, until Steev's boots slid against the edge of the platform.
The Inquisitor faltered at the feeling of nothingness beneath the edge of his heels; it threw him off so much that he lost his grip on his lightsaber and it flew from his hand, down to the worksite below.
Disarmed, he held his uninjured arm ahead of him, poised to use the Force to hold Eddie back, as the other was tucked close to his body.
He looked weak. Pathetic. Tired.
“You don’t need to do this,” Steev tried reasoning, using the words that echoed in his head against his opponent, instead of simply letting them haunt him alone.
Eddie gnashed his teeth together and scoffed.
“Is that what you told yourself before you tortured my uncle?” He gestured back towards the entrance of the office. “Is that what you said when you were debating whether to kill Thalia or not?”
Steev huffed a weak laugh and hung his head, then glanced up at him with dark eyes. “Kill me, then. Strike me down, since you think you’re better than I am. Since she clearly taught you that blood shed by someone basking in the light is justified.” He waited for Eddie to make a move, but when no strike came, he shouted. “Do it! Kill me! I’m already dead!”
Steev curled the fingers of his outstretched hand, and Eddie was dragged forward, close enough that his lightsaber grazed the side of Steev’s throat.
“Do it,” Steev hissed again.
Eddie was about to.
He could've ended this once and for all, if pulled his saber across Steev's throat, they could make a getaway. Continue the work Thalia had started alongside the Hidden Path or simply hide on Bogano until the Empire toppled, as Empires were prone to do.
They'd be safe.
So why couldn't he get himself to push the blade just a few more inches and end Steev’s life?
Because you're a good man, Eddie Moonsun.
Thalia had said that to him the first time they had met. Before they'd known anything about each other, before they'd taken this ridiculous journey together. She saw the good in him, saw the light. She believed in him.
She'd gotten him to believe in himself, too.
If he struck Steev down like he wanted to, like Steev himself wanted him to, then he became just as bad as Steev was. Doing what he wanted, instead of doing what was right.
"When to move," Eddie muttered. He lowered his lightsaber and deactivated it with a satisfying shhk. "And when to stay still. I can't kill you. Like you said, you're already dead."
He took several steps back and watched as Steev slumped further. He turned his back towards the Inquisitor to go check on Thalia, missing the way Steev's head snapped up. He charged towards Eddie.
And Steev was quick, but Eddie was quicker.
He dodged the blow Steev tried to land on him, and was able to activate his lightsaber quickly enough to slash across Steev's back, cutting through muscle from the side of his torso, up and across, to his already-injured shoulder.
Steev flailed and stumbled forward, skidding across the durasteel to the opposite edge of the platform, then over it.
"No!"
The pneumatic doors opened, revealing Thalia, who ran to the edge of the platform, and practically jumped over the side after her former friend. Eddie, stunned, faltered for a moment, before running after her; he threw his lightsaber to the side and then lept to try and keep her from sliding too far.
She cried out, both at the feeling of being crushed by Eddie's weight atop her and at the friction against her injuries. But she was still able to throw both of her hands out. Using all of her might and strength in the force, she held Steev's unconscious form aloft, dangling over the worksite far below.
"What are you doing?!" Eddie shouted at her.
"I can't...we can't..." She huffed at the exertion, voice weak. "We can't let him die. Eddie, help me."  She looked over her shoulder at him. "Please."
He felt rage build up in his chest.
He’d already tried to let Steev go free once, spared his life out on the ledge, and the idiot had tried to backstab him. He deserved what he got.
"Why should I?" Eddie shouted, teeth gritting in anger. "He hurt you, almost killed you. Could have killed my uncle and my friends. Our friends. Just like he killed your friends, and, I'm sure, countless others since then. He attacked me, tried to kill me, and I defended myself. He wants to die. He deserves to die."
“No one deserves to die!” She fought. “I told you that before! Listen to yourself!”
“You should listen to yourself, Thalia," Eddie strained. "He tried to kill you, and has been wanting revenge for half your life. And you want to...what? Give him another chance? So he can try and kill you again?"
"He could've," she whimpered. "But he didn't. There's good in him. Just like there's good in you, in all of us. You were already going to spare him. If you let him die now, you become just as bad as he became. Help me Eddie. Please.
"I can't lose you to the darkness like I lost him. I can't lose you too."
His eyes shut at the desperation, the strain, in her voice, and those words echoed in his ears.
She couldn't lose him? Well, he couldn't lose her either. They'd both already lost so much. Their homes, their lives, their purpose. But they'd found new ones, found each other. They'd come so far.
She'd trusted him, believed in him, even when he was being a bantha-brained, scruffy, foolish scoundrel.
Even when he'd been a stranger.
He’d trusted her too, even when he didn’t want to.
Why shouldn't he trust her now?
He pushed himself forward, shifting his body until his head rested against her shoulder, and he could stretch his arm out alongside hers. His fingers caressed the back of her hand softly, then he held his own hand out, ready to help her lift this impossible burden.
And it was an impossible burden.
As Eddie reached out and felt the familiarity of Thalia's strength in the Force, he sensed the sheer weight of Steev's body—his soul—that hung over the precipice. Singularities, black holes...they held an unimaginable mass; it was impossible to know just how deep and dark they were. Although he'd seen Steev's darkness waning, it still pulled him under.
He could feel it pull Thalia down, too, as she got weaker.
So he envisioned his own strength, his own light, and lent it to her, to help anchor hers; together they moved, like the rising twin suns back on Bogano. He imagined their hands scooping beneath Steev, and together, he and Thalia hauled him upwards.
And the higher they lifted him, the lighter he got, until he floated right beside them.
Then they all collapsed in a lifeless heap.
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Hyperspace, 10BBY
Almost everyone aboard the Mantis was on edge at the addition of an Imperial Inquisitor aboard, even though he was unarmed, unconscious, and fully submerged in the bacta tank down in the medbay.
Benny and Bob trusted Thalia implicitly. Even Hoppor didn't object.
"As long as El stays safe," he grumbled. "I'll be keeping my eye on him. Not in the business of taking risks."
For most of the trip back to Bogano, he sat in an uncomfortable chair in front of the Bacta tank, watching for any unexpected movement with his blaster rifle across his lap.
The crew of the Dragonborn made their objections known, though, bothering Thalia every chance they got.
"What if he has a tracker on him?" Jeff questioned. "The Empire is gonna follow us and we'll be toast."
"We just got our families safe." G'areth gestured to the group of elderly parents and handful of siblings who were huddled in the galley with bowls of porridge and cups of caf, courtesy of Benny and his constant need to feed everyone.
"He doesn't have a tracker on him," Thalia insisted. "And they're not going to find us. We're safe. I have a gut feeling; just trust me."
"You're starting to sound like Ed." Dayv let out a sardonic chuckle and then looked to their captain. "What do you think about all this?"
Eddie stood off to the side, arms crossed over his chest; he was still conflicted about the whole thing. Once he got back to the ship and made sure Wane was alright, he began to feel a creeping sense of guilt. Sure, he didn't let Steev die, but he hadn't exactly acted in any way that Wane would've been proud of either.
Shit, it didn't even matter if Wane would've been proud of it; he wasn't proud of himself. He would go to whatever lengths necessary to protect his family and friends, but he'd gone too far. It had all gone to his head, the sense of fulfillment and the power.
"Does it matter what I think?" he grumbled and turned away from the others, feigning disinterest.
Dayv scoffed. "Yeah, it does!"
"You're the one who dragged his body onboard," G'areth pointed out. "Both of them! Thalia was practically dead on her feet! I'm gonna assume that you didn't do that to her. Ergo—"
"Oh, ergo? Big words, G'ar," Eddie mocked. He pushed himself off the wall and approached his friend, stepping as close as he could, until their noses practically touched. "You think I decided to bring Mr. Bright Suns onboard? Think again, moof milker. And if I was in the business of bringing dangerous people on board, I would've hauled the other Inquisitor in here too. Two-for-one sale on Imperial prisoners."
"There were two of them?!"
Everyone started clamoring over one another, trying to get their thoughts and opinions in. They debated how safe they really were, if they needed to find a new planet to escape to altogether. Jeff even shouted something about ejecting Steev from the airlock. They shifted their attention between Thalia, who held steadfast and silent, and Eddie, who snarked and sassed his way through the barrage of questions and comments.
A sharp whistle brought them all to silence.
Everyone's head snapped towards Wane, who sat otherwise unassumingly with a steaming cup of caf in his hands. He even took a long slurp before sighing. "We all deserve to know what the hell is going on and have our safety ensured. Our lives were all just upended, after all. But my nephew and Miss Trieste here just risked their lives to save me." He looked to G'areth, Jeff, and Dayv's families. "Hell, all of your kids did. So I reckon they're not exactly thinking about the long-term just yet."
There was a collective muttering in agreement.
"I'm not too keen on having an Imperial agent on board this ship," Wane continued. "But...well, believe me, that man and his associate had me tied up for days. They might've done awful things to me, but I still saw living beings there. They could've killed me when I didn't give them information, but they didn't. He's a living, breathing man with pain...and regret.
"So instead of resorting to mob violence—" He shot Jeff a pointed glare. "—let's focus on healing him up, understanding who he is and why he did what he did. Then we can decide whether he's a threat or not."
Everyone spoke over one another, in support and agreement. In apology. Then they finished their breakfast and dispersed around the ship to various makeshift bunks.
"How're you feeling, old man?" he asked.
"I'm doing alright," Wane nodded as he lifted his cup to his lips. "Confused. Overwhelmed. But alright."
"Good." Eddie nodded. "Good."
They both avoided the inevitable discussion that awaited them.
Why the Empire had been looking for Eddie, why they'd gotten Wane involved, and how Eddie had suddenly shown up with a lightsaber and abilities he hadn't had before.
It was a weighty discussion and they'd barely had a chance to talk since they'd been on the Mantis. The last time they'd seen each other—the last time they'd even talked via holocall—felt like several lifetimes ago. He was barely the same person he was last year, and he hadn't seen Wane in the flesh in 5? Maybe more?
He knew they needed more time than just a few scant minutes of privacy aboard a crowded ship.
Wane, though, seemed to get over his hesitation, and he finally asked, "How did you become a fugitive from the Empire, son? I thought I taught you better than that."
"You do know that the guys and I were smuggling before this, right? You didn't think we were gonna get into trouble?" He snorted nervously, but straightened under his uncle's stern gaze.
"I taught you to lie low. Even when the Republic was still in power."
"I know."
"Suddenly imperial agents with red lightsabers are showing up to ask me about your whereabouts. Felt like when superintendent Hig-Gins comm'd to tell me you and the boys had skipped classes at the Institute."
The older man cracked a wry smile and then took another sip of caf, lessening Eddie's worries about being in trouble.
"Why aren't you mad?" he asked his uncle. "W-why did you do that whole show of...of tolerance with the others? He and the other Inquisitor tortured you for days."
Wane sighed. "Lots of people have done me wrong over the years, Ed. And I used to be hot-headed about it. Just like you. But I came to the realization that they might be feeling some kind of hurt. Or loss. Or misguidedness. And that I should offer them the grace that they were incapable of showing me."
Eddie hummed thoughtfully, but Wane continued. "It's why I welcomed your dad home every single time he came back to Bracca. It's why I made sure that you saw the best he had to give you. You didn't deserve to see a father that was broken beyond repair. And he didn't deserve to have a son who hated him."
"But I did hate him," Eddie argued. "I do."
"Do you?" Wane sniffed. "You used to smile brighter than the suns when he came home. Or do you just pity him now that you know better?"
Eddie sat back in his seat and kept his mouth shut. He knew his feelings, his anger. But he also knew that Wane was right.
"Same goes for that man down in the medbay." Wane gestured towards the hall. "The Empire is just a big machine and he was part of it. But then he took his helmet off and he was a human. I wouldn't have ever given you up, Ed, but I saw the pain in his eyes every time he tried to get a word out of me. That wasn't a man who wanted to hurt me. It was a man who had no other choice."
Eddie thought about the hate emanating off Steev during that confrontation with Thalia. How was that no other choice? Eddie might've hurt people before. Smuggling was a tough job, the galaxy a hard place. But he'd never been angry enough to intentionally kill someone; to hurt them, to end their life.
Not until he'd seen Steev hurt Thalia and Wane.
He shook that dark feeling away and reminded himself that they were alive, they were safe.
"And if he killed me?" he snapped at his uncle. "What then? Would he still be a man with no other choice? A man in pain? Could you forgive him then?"
Wane's gaze hardened. "I might not forgive him. But if he had remorse? Regret? It has to count for something."
There was a moment of silence as Eddie let those words simmer.
"Does it?" he finally asked softly.
"It does."
"Hmmm..."
There was a lot he needed to think about.
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Bogano, 10BBY
To say that a hero's welcome waited for them when they returned to Bogano would be an understatement.
Their friends were all ready and waiting as the Stranger Mantis touched down at the edge of camp. Benny and Bob waved to them from the cockpit and then Benny joked that they must've unloaded every crate and box in Eno Cordova's old workshop to make some of the decorations that littered the camp.
There were garlands made with old cables, nuts, bolts, and spare parts. Tarps of various colors covered their makeshift mess tables. They'd even thought of music; Hop's favorite band—Blootopian Blues—came from a loudspeaker that Jonathan had sliced a datapad into.
At first, Joyce tried to wrangle them all to keep them safe as a group of unfamiliar faces were the first to exit the ship. But before long, the crew of the Dragonborn joined and eagerly and excitedly introduced their family members.
Jeff had a younger brother around Na'ancee and Jonathan's age, G'areth's mother quickly struck up a conversation with Joyce, and Dayv's grandfather happened to have a pocket full of candies that he excitedly shared with all of the younglings.
"Poppa, were those really a necessity?" Dayv scolded the elderly man as he handed out the sweets. They'd been told to pack light.
"Guess you boys are going to have to smuggle some more Tapasi Taffy for old Poppa, huh?"
"Sarcasm runs in the family," Hoppor joked before hurrying to find El in the crowd.
Bob took charge and led the newcomers to their new living spaces; Joyce and the kids had done a good job setting up extra tents, but it seemed that they would need to get more supplies. Especially if Bogano was going to become more of a permanent home for them all.
"What about credits?" Wane questioned as he was corralled into his new living quarters. It was the same tent that Eddie and his friends lived in; another bed was set up for him beside Eddie's.
"What about the credits, he asks." Bob snorted and clapped a hand on Wane's shoulder. "Mr. Moonsun, you're on an undiscovered planet with a Force-wielding outlaw, her group of youngling students, your smuggler son and his smuggler friends, having just escaped a kidnapping from Imperial Inquisitors hoping to kill you all. And you're wondering ‘what about credits?’"
"Fair point." Wane nodded and settled down to unpack his things.
Benny, although tired, promised a feast for them all. 
“And then someone else can make breakfast in the morning,” he said with a laugh. “I take my caf with extra cream, and if anyone wants to make me some blue milk porridge with dried fruit? I wouldn’t say no.”
G’areth saluted him and agreed.
In all the commotion, there was one face pointedly missing.
Eddie looked for Thalia everywhere; he thought that her solitude aboard the Mantis would end once they arrived. The kids all wanted to see her, wanted to hear about the adventure from both of them, and he thought she should be around when he broke the news about their unexpected guest to everyone in camp.
It wasn’t until he’d checked her quarters that he realized that she must still be aboard the Mantis.
He snuck into the medbay as quietly as he could; there was no other place that she could be. Actually, he’d thought to look back in the bunkroom, but had been lured down by the binary conversation going back and forth between BD-1 and D5-TN.
He stood and watched as Thalia sat in the chair, and held BD-1 in her lap. Meanwhile, D5-TN was in front of the Bacta tank, nervously rolling back and forth. The two droids questioned how long the man inside would stay there, and Dustin was concerned that any time in the tank was too much.
"I know you've never seen one of those before, but he's fine, Dusty. He's not gonna drown," Thalia finally intervened with a soft chuckle.
"Yeah, but are we planning to keep him in there forever?" Eddie finally piped up, causing Thalia's head to snap in his direction. "We could put him in a circus out in Wild Space. See the great, pickled Inquisitor."
She cracked what was probably the first smile he'd seen since they'd departed Bracca.
"How's he, uh, doing?" he asked.
"Healing." She shrugged. "Slowly."
"Maybe kolto is the superior substance after all." She rolled her eyes at him. "There’s a whole party going on outside, and you’re still hanging out in here. I don’t think that old Steev’s better at conversation than we are. ‘Specially not in the state he’s in now."
He let out a soft laugh, but sobered up when she didn’t respond.
“How are you?” he asked. “What’s going on? I thought we solved this funk thing before we got to Bracca. Is your stomach still hurting? I can get you another stimpack.” She'd refused any medical attention when they'd gotten back to the Mantis, instead focusing on getting her former friend stable. Eventually, Bob sat her down and gave her stimpack after stimpack and then finally a sedative so she could sleep.
"I...I don't know how I am," she whispered. Eddie knew that she was referring to more than just the lightsaber wound.
BD-1 looked up and whistled softly, then looked over at D5-TN and honked. She loosened her grip and the small explorer droid hopped to the ground, then the two droids departed from the medbay, leaving Eddie and Thalia alone.
Alone…with Steev.
"I feel like I'm at some kind of a crossroads now," she continued. "I stand by my decision not to let him die, to bring him with us. But after that? What do we do? Do we leave him in bacta forever, just like you said? Until what? We overthrow the Emperor?"
"Is that our next goal?" Eddie joked.
"Until it's safe to let him..." She paused and searched for the words. "Let him heal from what the Dark Side has done to him. With the Empire in power, I don't know if that can happen. The Inquisitors, they'll always...he’ll always…"
She trailed off with a hum, lips pursed.
Eddie waited for her to keep talking, and when she stayed silent, he took a few steps forward, until he was in front of the bacta tank.
Steev floated inside, unconscious and hooked up to a breathing mask and other devices that read out his vitals. He looked serene, as though he was sleeping instead of sedated and unconscious. His hair moved ambiently through the fluid, and the dark circles around his eyes had seemed to clear up. His body, however, looked bloated, distorted from the curved transparisteel of the tank. Along with the lightsaber wounds from the duel that looked like they were in the early stages of knitting itself back together, there were other scars that littered his body amidst freckles and moles.
A ligature mark around his neck, blaster wounds on his arms and legs, the look of what was possibly an old, healed bite wound along his side.
Had he gotten those as a Padawan during the Clone Wars? Or as a part of the Inquisitorious? Had his surrender to the Dark Side of the Force spared him from further pain? Or only caused him more? Eddie thought about the sparks of light he felt buried beneath the darkness in Steev's heart. Then he thought about what Wane had said to him, how remorse and regret had to count for something. A villain, someone who had truly given themselves to the Dark Side, could never feel those things. But somehow, Steev had.
“Do it! Kill me!" Steev had said at the end of their fight. "I’m already dead!”
Hopeless. Lost. Confused. Eddie had been those things at one point or another in his life, but he’d overcome it. He had one thing that Steev didn’t seem to have: friends. And Thalia. She was more than a friend. She was the person who was responsible for half of his troubles in this endeavor, but was also the one who helped him transcend them. Even when he’d felt his own anger settling in and pulling him to a dark place, she’d helped him back to the path to finding what was right.
"I don't know what to do," she whispered and Eddie turned and looked at her in shock. The person who’d seen him grow and change the most in the past few weeks was now lost herself. Well, he couldn’t have that.
"See, now I think that's a bunch of bantha shit," he scoffed and took a few steps back to her. He knelt before her and took her hands in his. "Because I heard you spout off a whole plan just then."
She frowned at him. "Did you?"
"You bet your boots."
"Would you care to elaborate on this plan you think I said?"
"You said that you would heal him, heal what the Dark Side has done?" Thalia nodded. "Then that's what we'll do."
"How?"
"We'll figure it out, one step at a time. Together."
"It's not that easy, Eddie." She tried to pull her hands away from him but he held on. "There's too much to be done. More missions for the Hidden Path, lessons in the Force—lessons that you haven't even completed yourself, by the way—not to mention simply surviving. There’s no time!"
"Well it's a good thing you're not going into it alone now, huh?" He squeezed her fingers lightly, and let himself channel the calm that he always felt from her. He let it flow freely towards her, felt it surround her and fill her up. Until she was a little calmer, a little brighter. "Steev is an Inquisitor, and even with the whole of the Empire at his back, he’s still alone. To deal with his anger, to deal with his troubles. Shit, even when he was part of the Jedi Order. I remember thinking that it was so cool to be a Padawan and have a Jedi Master teaching me things. But what did you say? Jedi don’t form attachments. So outside of the one person Steev was meant to trust, he had no one. He had you, right? But even you—”
“Let him down,” Thalia scoffed.
“Kept your distance,” Eddie corrected. “In your memory of the Jedi Temple, the biggest thing that stood out to me was how alone you were. Master Cordova? He wasn’t your master, he was your boss. And he wasn’t even there to protect you when the Order fell. None of the masters could save their apprentices. They couldn’t even save each other. It was every man for himself.
“Well, not anymore. I told you before we went to save Wane, you're not in it alone. You helped me, helped all of us." He glanced at Steev over his shoulder. "And I don't know entirely if he deserves it, but you'll help him, too. What did you tell me? Huh? A single spark of courage…” He frowned and tried to think back to the exact words she had said; he could only feel how good they’d made him feel. He wanted to share that feeling with her now, too. “Sorry, I can't remember.”
“Can ignite the fires of hope,” she recited as a smile grew on her lips. There was a warm feeling in his chest that grew at the sight of her smile. It was nice to provide her with the comfort she constantly gave him.
“You are that spark. We are that spark.” He continued and he thought back to his first instance of training to sense the living Force and felt the vast glowing nebula of light and life on the planet. He pushed that thought, that image through to Thalia, and he felt her squeeze his hand as she gasped. And then he helped her see the glowing bit of light in Steev, still shrouded, but not lost. “We will help him find the light again."
He opened his eyes in tandem with her, and she smiled and squeezed his hand tighter.
“When did you get to be so insightful?” she asked, letting out a watery laugh. “Seriously, you must have a really great teacher. You’re not the hotheaded, scruffy-looking smuggler I met back on Nar-Shaddaa.”
Eddie scoffed and tried to get up, tried to pry his hands from hers so he could walk away in fake outrage.
“Here I am, trying to make her feel better,” he narrated out into the empty ship. “And she calls me scruffy looking.”
She pushed herself out of the chair and swatted at him. He pulled her towards the entrance of the medbay so they could join the others for dinner, but she paused at the door to give one more look to Steev.
“He’ll be okay,” he promised.
“Yeah.” Thalia smiled and turned back to Eddie. “Yeah, he will be.”
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They headed down the boarding ramp and into the festivities as their friends, new and old, greeted Thalia as well. The kids demanded stories, Robin asked questions about the supposed newcomer aboard and if they’d need any help tending to him–
“I’m a pretty good healer, actually.”
–and G’areth and Jeff eagerly tried to announce that they would be playing a set for the festivities.
“Hey!” Eddie barked at them. “Why am I the last to know about this set? We haven’t practiced in weeks!”
“Come on, son,” Wane squawked in a heckling voice. “You’re gonna tell me I taught you how to play that guitar, and you need to practice for a week just to play a few measly songs.”
“Didn’t know you were playing for the Emperor,” Erica teased along with the older man, earning a pat on her head.
Eddie grumbled a lighthearted threat at them both, before he gave in.
The celebration was lovely, and as the sky began to turn shades of pinks and oranges and purples, the exhaustion began to set in. And the realization that this was what they all had to look forward to, what they had to preserve in the coming days, weeks, years that were to come.
Togetherness. Community. Hope.
Thalia found Eddie at the edge of camp, smoking while leaning against the barrier wall, shortly after he and the guys finished playing for the crowd. She didn’t speak at first; she didn’t need to. He could feel the way her soul brightened the closer she got to him, and when she took his hand in hers, a gentle calm descended on them both. He discarded his death stick and pulled her into his embrace. 
After a few beats, she spoke, and he could hear the cheeky smile in her voice as she said, “so, lightsaber training? Bright and early tomorrow morning?”
He threw his head back and groaned.
“Seriously? After everything we went through?” She lightly punched against his side. He let out a drawn out, dramatic sigh and then agreed. “I guess a little practice wouldn’t hurt. Not if I have to save your ass again.”
“Excuse me? Again?” She laughed and pulled away to look him in the eye. She looked about ready to bicker with him, as was their form of flirting, but Eddie was quick to cup her cheek and catch her lips with his.
His kiss was full of challenge, promise, gratitude, and love, and she melted into it, accepting everything he had to give. And his heart soared as she gave it right back to him, tenfold.
Eddie Moonsun had only ever dreamed of the sky, and as soon as he’d been able to, he had soared as high as he could. He’d found adventure, danger, the will of the galaxy—the Force—and had gone further than he’d ever imagined. Now, though, in the aftermath of chaos, he found himself grounded. With Thalia’s lips against his and the faint sounds of their friends in the distance, he realized that this was better than anything he’d ever dreamed of. 
A home, his friends, a purpose, love, hope. They were the real dreams, the real adventures, and he found that he was content to savor it as long as he could.
Thalia pulled away and fell back into his arms, and they watched as the binary suns of Bogano set. Tomorrow would bring another day, another challenge. But they were ready for a bright and brilliant future that they’d create and protect. 
Together.
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Eddie Moonsun, Thalia Trieste, Steev Toninghar, and all of their friends will return in By Any Other Name (Summer 2025) and Braver Than Most (Fall/Winter 2025).
Thank you again for reading! May the Force Be With You. Always.
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f4iryt3a · 1 month ago
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What I'm not saying | Blackwall*Inquisitor +18
Esdras is from @/Destiiner (twt) don't hesitate to go and see her work ♡
--
Skyhold was sleeping. A feigned, light sleep, thick with whispers behind the walls and heavy memories. The snow, fine and insistent, covered the rooftops in a pale, silent veil, making the night feel even denser. Everything seemed frozen. Even the torches appeared to burn more slowly.
Esdras walked the empty corridors, arms crossed beneath her cloak, her steps straight and measured as always. She hadn’t screamed, nor cried, nor let herself tremble when he came back. She had looked at him with the same calm expression she wore for war reports and diplomatic decisions. The expression of a woman who knew how to keep the world at bay. An Inquisitor, cold and composed, her gaze as sharp as the blade at her hip.
But inside, it was a desert. A chaos frozen in salt.
She hadn’t let herself think of it since his return. Not really. She had run into Thom once, by chance — if there was such a thing as chance in Skyhold — in the courtyard. He had greeted her with a nod. She had said nothing. She had felt her heart slow down. Not race — slow, as if it suddenly refused to beat for someone who had worn another name.
But that was wrong, wasn’t it? He wasn’t another man. Not an invention. Not an illusion. It was him. It was his hands, his voice, that ever-so-slightly pained look he gave her, as if he were waiting for her to vanish.
And that was the cruellest part: he believed she had only loved a name. A façade. He didn’t know. He didn’t understand. He had never understood that everything he had been — the silences, the absences, the shame, even the lies — all of it had already been seen. Weighed. Loved.
And she didn’t know how to tell him.
She came to his door. Out of habit, almost. As if her feet had led her there without her say. The light was faint beneath the threshold. He was still awake. Of course he was. He was like her. He thought too much.
She lifted her hand. Stopped.
The Inquisitor never hesitated. She was the one who decided. Who cut through. Who faced dragons and demons with the same calm. And yet, there she was, standing before a wooden door, her fist suspended in the air.
And then… the door opened.
He was there. Barefoot. Hair tousled. In a simple shirt, the sleeves rolled up. His eyes landed on her like a breath caught in the throat. He didn’t seem surprised. Just… worn. As though seeing her there was both a miracle and a punishment.
— Esdras, he said softly.
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
She looked at him for a long while, and he didn’t look away. He didn’t try to explain. Not tonight. There was no more space for words.
She stepped over the threshold.
And the door closed behind her.
The door shut with a dull sound, cutting off the cold breath of the corridor. Inside, it was warmer — not really because of the fire, which burned low in the hearth — but because of him. Because of her. Because of everything they hadn’t said. Everything that had been stifled for months, perhaps since the very beginning.
Esdras remained standing, stiff, arms still crossed, her face smooth as marble. No sign. No word. But her eyes remained fixed on him. On Thom. On the man she had loved without ever saying “I love you.” On the one she had chosen in spite of herself, in spite of the world, in spite of her own silence.
He hadn’t moved. He didn’t need to. She was there. And that alone was enough to shake the ground beneath his feet.
He looked at her with that intensity only he could summon: direct, bare, almost painful. The look of a man who expected nothing, but hoped for everything. He had always worn shame like a coat too heavy for him, even before he’d confessed the truth. Even when he was still just “Blackwall.”
— You might never have come, he said at last, voice rough.
It wasn’t an accusation, nor regret. Just a fact. Just an emptiness between them.
She inclined her head slightly. Not a word.
— I’d understand, he added after a moment. If you don’t trust me anymore. If you feel nothing now...
This time, she moved. Slowly. One step towards him.
He fell silent.
Her gaze remained hard, steady, but her hands betrayed what she held in — they were trembling. Just a little. But enough for him to see.
She would not contradict him. Not now. She wouldn’t reopen that wound with words. The Inquisitor didn’t explain herself. She acted. She held back. Until she couldn’t anymore.
And now, she couldn’t.
Her fingers slowly undid her cloak. A simple gesture. Controlled. Almost military. The cloth dropped to the wooden floor with a muffled sound. Then she stepped forward again, twice. He could feel her presence, feel the tension in every inch of her frame, and despite himself, he stiffened. Not from fear. But from that old instinct — the one that told you not to believe when something was freely given.
— Esdras… he murmured, uncertain.
She looked up at him. Just for a second. And in that single glance, he saw everything: the pain, the exhaustion, the restrained anger, the love, the loyalty. The longing. And that need splitting her open from the inside, the one she had denied for so long — for duty, for order, for the Inquisition and all it stood for.
But now, all that remained was him.
At last, she reached out. Her palm brushed his chest, where the thin shirt allowed the warmth of his skin to seep through. And Thom didn’t move. It felt as though even the slightest breath would shatter the moment.
But it was she who trembled.
— What I loved… what I love, she whispered at last, her voice barely audible, is you.
Her fingers clutched lightly at his shirt.
— Not your name. Not your mask. You.
He inhaled sharply, almost as if she had struck him.
And then, he dared. He raised a hand, very slowly, and placed it against her cheek. She didn’t pull away. In fact, she closed her eyes.
He touched her like something long lost. A forgotten skin, a hoped-for breath. And in that dense silence, in that fragile contact, there were no more masks, no war, no betrayal.
There was only them.
She opened her eyes, sought his mouth, and kissed him.
Not a staged kiss. Not a kiss of confession. A deep, wordless kiss, full of urgency, of questions and answers. He responded with the same restrained intensity, the same aching belief that she might never have come back. His hand slid to her nape, into her hair, and he pulled her closer.
She pressed against him, her body taut like a drawn bowstring. Nothing was gentle — not yet. Everything was tension, and restraint, and a bridled need.
They barely broke apart to breathe. Their foreheads rested together. Her breath on his skin. Her hands on his chest like an anchor. His at her waist, at the base of her spine.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
What she had said was everything. And what would follow was the natural consequence of that truth.
She held him back.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t thought through. It wasn’t even entirely intentional — but her hand caught his, without force, without plea. Just enough to keep him from leaving too soon.
And he understood.
He stepped closer again, slowly, without breaking eye contact. He didn’t touch her otherwise. He let her choose. It was she who lifted her hand to brush his cheek, hesitant, almost trembling. Her glove was rough against his skin, but her hand itself was incredibly soft.
She looked at him as if standing on the edge of something. Not a void — more like a line. A boundary she had always respected, always protected. He could see in the tension of her jaw that she might retreat.
But she didn’t.
He said nothing either. He leaned in, just slightly — not in supplication, but in patience. In certainty. Their faces drew closer. It was she who bridged the last few millimetres. The kiss was dry, clumsy, misaligned.
It was devastating.
She pulled back almost immediately, as if caught doing something forbidden, eyes wide, breath tight. He didn’t stop her, but she didn’t push him away either. And it was she, again, who returned — a second kiss, this time slower. Truer.
They searched for each other in the too-full silence. She pulled him towards her with a short, quick, almost brutal motion. Her arms around his neck, her lips on his with a restrained hunger. And he answered without resistance, following the motion like water flowing down the bed of a river it already knew.
Her coat fell. His shirt was unbuttoned by an unsteady hand. He let her. It wasn’t lust — not only. It was something deeper. More desperate.
When he held her in his arms, she was stiff as a blade. But she didn’t let go. Her face was buried in the curve of his shoulder, and her breath hitched there, hot and shallow and tense. She was allowing herself. Yielding an inch.
And that was already an earthquake.
He stroked her nape with the tips of his fingers, through her hair, and she let out a low, rasping sigh that made his chest tremble.
She pushes him back slightly, just to look at him properly. And without a word, she pulls off the tunic she’s still wearing. Slowly. Not to seduce. To reveal. To shed. To show herself. There’s a trembling shadow of defiance in her gaze, laced with the fear of being judged.
But he says nothing. He looks at her the way a man looks at a scar he cherishes.
And it’s she who comes back to him again.
She makes him sit on the edge of the bed. Frames him with her legs, forcing him to look up at her. She undoes her braid with a nervous flick of her fingers, trembling slightly. Her hair falls—not in a cascade, but in messy strands. Damp. Human.
She leans in. Their foreheads touch.
She breathes, almost voiceless:
 — I’ve never known how to do this gently.
He replies against her mouth:
 — Then do it the way you can.
And she kisses him again, this time lower. Her lips seek his throat, his shoulder. Her hands glide over his chest, both sure and hesitant. And every touch speaks louder than any confession: I want, I fear, I don’t know, but I’m here.
When he slides his hands over her hips, she doesn’t pull away. When he undoes the buckle of her trousers, she says nothing. When he gently eases her back onto the bed, it’s she who draws him in, a leg sliding against his, her breath quick, her body already taut.
The fire crackles softly in the hearth. It casts long shadows across the walls. The world feels distant, blurred, unreal. Only the two of them remain. And this restraint, on the verge of breaking.
He looks at her one last time. Makes sure. Silently.
She nods. Just once.
He kisses her first. Tenderly. Like sealing a promise.
His lips press softly against Esdras’s, and she answers with a warmth she no longer tries to hide. A quiet sigh escapes her throat as he breaks the kiss, slowly, his eyes still open—still fixed on her, as if trying to remember her in every moment.
Then he drifts to her neck.
His mouth finds the tender spot just beneath her jaw, leaves a kiss just a touch deeper, before moving on. He tastes her skin like a starving man who knows there’s no need to rush—every gesture measured, every caress considered. His tongue draws a warm path along her throat, then across her collarbones, which he explores with deliberate slowness.
She tilts her head back slightly, her eyelids heavy, lips parted. It’s not full surrender—not yet. But her breath quickens, barely audible. Her fingers speak for her. They reach for Thom’s thick curls, slipping into them, gripping gently. She tugs, just a little, as if urging him on—or maybe to keep herself grounded.
Thom moves lower, his mouth growing bolder, more playful. He alternates light nips with long strokes of his tongue. She shivers, but doesn’t moan—still holding on to control, or trying to. Yet her body betrays her: her hips shift beneath his, seeking contact, firmer pressure.
When his mouth reaches her breasts, he slows again. He cradles them in his broad hands, palms warm, thumbs tracing their curves like a devoted craftsman. Then, he takes one into his mouth, suckling gently, his tongue circling the hardened peak.
Esdras arches just a little, but her legs tighten around Thom’s hips, and her fingers tangle more insistently in his hair. She fights herself. She doesn’t want to yield to sound. Not yet. Not now.
But he’s driving her mad.
He takes his time, moving between her breasts with maddening patience, licking, teasing, sometimes biting just enough to tear a breathy gasp from her that she can’t suppress. He feels her skin shiver beneath him, her thighs tremble faintly.
And still, it’s she who decides.
She pushes him back—not roughly, but firmly. A flat press of the hand to his shoulder, and he understands. He lets her, docile, a shadow of a smile on his lips.
Esdras straddles him in a fluid, almost impatient movement. Her knees settle on either side of his thighs, and now she towers over him, a proud figure in the flickering firelight. Her hair, undone, drapes over her shoulders. Her chest rises and falls quickly, and her eyes are twin shards of night.
Thom says nothing. He watches her like a vision. His hands move to her hips—he can’t help it, they call to him—and his fingers settle there with possessive gentleness. He kneads them slowly, in time with the subtle roll of her hips.
She has taken control.
And he gives it to her.
His mouth seeks her breasts again, but it’s she who decides the where, the when. She leans forward, back arched — and he understands the moment belongs to her. And beneath his hands, she burns.
Thom watches her, breathless, as she settles above him — proud, composed, beautifully in command. His gaze meets Esdras’s, and in her eyes he sees that restrained, almost fierce gentleness she shows no one else. The part of her she offers only to him. She leans down again — not with urgent passion, but with a tenderness that borders on solemn. Esdras presses a kiss to his forehead, light, almost chaste. Then another to his temple. His cheek. Just beneath his jaw. She takes her time, as he had done for her. It is her way of responding, of giving back, of showing that she sees him — that she knows him.
Her lips continue their journey across his tanned, marked, beloved skin. She moves lower, kissing each scar she encounters, each ridge of muscle beneath her hands. Her mouth lingers in the hollow of his collarbone, where his pulse thrums wild beneath her fingers. Then on his left pectoral, where she plants a longer kiss, firmer, almost reverent.
She knows he’s trembling beneath her. She feels it — the twitch of his muscles, the subtle spasms of his abdomen when she brushes her fingertips across his skin. He’s taut with tension, drawn like a bowstring, each breath sharper than the last. And she delights in it, quietly.
Her kisses grow more playful. She nips at the hair on his chest, runs her tongue down his sternum, eyes lifted to watch his reactions. He barely makes a sound — but she hears everything. The tension in his throat, the breath he holds. He is aching to let go, aching to be touched, to be loved.
Her left hand travels down his side, then across his stomach. Her fingers delve into the thick trail of hair leading down to his hips. She caresses lightly with her nails, carving lines that make his abdomen shiver beneath her.
He groans this time. Softly. But it’s a groan nonetheless. And when she finally brushes against the erection straining desperately beneath the fabric, he gasps — his head tipping back against the makeshift bed, a sound escaping him that’s rough, almost pained.
— Esdras…He doesn’t beg often. It’s not in his nature. But now, there’s no mask, no pretence. He wants her, he craves her, and it’s nearly a plea — not just for pleasure, but for connection. For her to keep giving him what she’s offering without a word.
She chuckles softly — that rare, warm sound that seems to exist only in the intimacy they share. She loves seeing him like this: vulnerable, laid bare, cheeks flushed, breath unsteady. She loves making him wait — but never too long. Just enough to watch him melt beneath her touch.
She removes what little fabric remains between them — gently, with no fuss, no haste. And then finally, her hand wraps around him.
She touches him with exquisite care. Her fingers curl around him, stroking slowly, sensually. Her warm palm glides from base to tip in a lazy rhythm that makes him tremble at once. His hips jerk upwards of their own accord, and his hands clutch at the blanket beneath him. He moans — clearly, openly. His mouth falls open in a silent cry as his head tilts back.
Esdras watches the response with quiet delight glinting in her eyes. He’s in her hands — quite literally — and she knows exactly what to do. She adjusts the pressure, the rhythm, listens to every sigh, every call from his body.
She loves seeing him like this. Loving someone like Thom means loving his strength — but also his cracks. And here, beneath her, he is the man she loves: bare, tender, and beautiful in his surrender.
He is little more than a whisper now, panting her name like a prayer. And she fully intends to make him wait a little longer.
Esdras slowly trails back up Thom’s body, leaving a warm path of kisses and caresses along his skin. She rises just enough to meet his gaze — that gaze that always burns for her. Then she leans in, gently, her lips finding his in a kiss that begins tender — then deepens, more demanding.
Their breaths mingle, their rhythms align. Esdras parts her lips beneath Thom’s — their tongues seeking, finding, beginning that hot, hungry dance that belongs only to them. A muffled moan slips from between their joined mouths. She feels his hands at her hips, her thighs — then one of them slides lower, steady and assured, almost tender.
Thom knows what he’s doing. He knows where to touch her. He knows how her body responds — how she always holds back, just a little, even in pleasure — how she wrestles with surrendering too soon.
His fingers find her vulva — already warm, swollen, slick with want. At first he barely grazes her, tracing light circles with the tips of his fingers, as though taming her. Esdras exhales softly into his mouth, her breath catching — and the kiss ignites.
She clings to him tighter, arching her hips in search of that more direct, firmer touch. Thom smiles against her lips — then finally slides a finger — then a second — inside her, slow and deliberate, never breaking the kiss.
The sound that escapes her is soft, almost held back — but it betrays her. Her body speaks louder: she rocks her hips gently into his hand, driven by that burning tension. Her movements seek rhythm, pressure — and Thom gives her both.
— You’re so beautiful when you lose control — he breathes against her mouth between kisses.
She doesn’t answer — but her gaze grows heavier, thick with need. She bites his lip gently — then takes his mouth again, fiercer this time. She holds onto him, fingers buried in his hair, as he touches her with a slowness that borders on cruel — fingers plunging and withdrawing, curved just right.
Her belly tightens, her chest rises — and she moves against him, trying to match his rhythm. Another moan escapes her — low, rough, right against his lips. And it drives him mad.
She’s stunning. Lost in sensation — yet still upright, still dignified, even at the edge of pleasure. She gives everything — and yet never dissolves. She is there — solid, alive, burning beneath his hands. And he adores her.
She still straddles him — but it’s his fingers that lead her now. She follows their guidance, finds the rhythm, clings to it — thighs trembling, breath short.
Thom slips a hand to her back — the other still between her legs — as if to steady her in case he melts her too fast.
— Esdras…
Her name is a prayer, a choked cry, a vow.
She moans again — louder this time — her fingers gripping the back of his neck. And she knows she won’t last much longer if this keeps going.
But she doesn’t want to come — not yet.
So she takes his hand — slowly, gently — and draws it away. Their eyes meet — loaded, conspiratorial, almost fierce with love.
— My turn — she murmurs, warm breath against his lips.
And without waiting, she rises — taking him in hand to guide what comes next.
Thom shudders beneath Esdras’s touch. Her initiative draws a groan from deep in his chest — low, rough, almost animal. He loves it when she takes the reins — when she lets herself want him openly, touch him as she does now — with that deliberate slowness, that fearsome tenderness. He feels her hand around him — firm and unhurried — each stroke measured to drive him mad. His cock throbs in her palm — greedy and ready — and he has to fight himself not to give in all at once.
But she isn’t far behind.
Esdras arches slightly, her breathing short, her body shivering with every gentle thrust of Thom’s fingers inside her. She moves softly against his hand, and this slow dance binds them completely. They’re giving each other pleasure at the same time, perfectly in sync, like a silent ritual shared between them.
Their breaths mingle, broken by quiet moans, shivers, burning glances.
— You’re so beautiful like this… Thom breathes, his lips brushing her temple.
— And you… so fucking unbearable when you talk like that, Esdras retorts with a mocking breath, though her cheeks flush with a betraying pink.
He chuckles softly against her skin, but doesn’t stop. He keeps whispering, worshipping her with his words as much as with his hands.
— I love feeling you tremble under my fingers… I love that look in your eyes when you try to stay composed… You always want to be in control, don’t you? Even of your pleasure?
Esdras closes her eyes for a moment, biting her lower lip. Her breath hitches again, and her hand around him grows more eager. She knows him by heart, too. She knows exactly how to make him yield.
— I’m not in control of anything, she growls as she leans down to kiss him, her voice rough with desire. Least of all you.
That simple confession is enough to send a shiver down Thom’s spine. His lower belly tightens, his body aches for more. He looks at her for a second, eyes burning with untameable love. Then, without warning, he shifts slightly, his hand slowly leaving her warmth.
— Now… it’s my turn, he murmurs against her lips.
He gently rolls her onto her side, taking the lead with a firm but tender authority. Esdras lets out a brief laugh — a little surprised, but not displeased. She welcomes him between her open thighs, her hands already around his neck, pulling his face to hers for a deep, urgent kiss.
— Taking the reins again, are you? she murmurs against his mouth, voice tinged with a smile.
— Always, when you lose your footing, he replies with a wink.
She bites his lip in response, then kisses him with a renewed hunger. During the heated kiss, Thom slowly slides his hands down her thighs, then parts them, caressing the insides with a broad, warm palm.
He pauses a moment, looking at her as if she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. And to him, she is.
Gently, he grabs a pillow and slides it beneath her hips, adjusting it carefully to bring her to the perfect height. Esdras watches him with amusement and tenderness alike. She feels the fabric lift her slightly, her pelvis offered to him in an almost indecent way.
Then, he returns to her.
His hips press forward, and his hard length brushes the wet lips of her vulva. He doesn’t enter yet. He rubs slowly, sensually, sliding against her, soaking in the heat and wetness of her core. He’s preparing her, teasing her, drawing shivers from her with the simplest of touches.
Esdras moans softly, her head tipping back.
— Stop playing… she murmurs, voice hoarse.
But Thom smiles, and goes on.
— I love feeling your impatience… love knowing you’re right there, on the edge.
He leans in to kiss her again, slower this time, while his hand caresses her hip, her stomach, her breast. His cock glides against her again, firmer now, parting her slick folds with agonising precision.
— Thom… she whimpers.
And this time, he knows it’s right.
Esdras’s body shudders, a long tremor rippling through her as Thom keeps rubbing his length slowly along her soaked slit. The movement is languid, deliberate, almost hypnotic — every pass between her sensitive lips draws a sigh, a roll of her hips in response. She arches softly, welcoming him more fully, rubbing her thighs against his hips, craving more contact, more friction, more of him.
A small whimper escapes her when he presses slightly against her clit with a firmer motion.
— Thom… she moans, voice barely more than a breath.
He looks up at her. And that simple sound — his real name, moaned in a voice she doesn’t seem aware of — sends a shiver straight down his spine. It’s rare she calls him that in moments like this. And when she does, it means she’s completely his. Present. Surrendered.
— You know what that does to me, when you say my name like that… he murmurs, lips brushing her cheek, then her mouth.
— And yet I’ll keep doing it, she whispers with a lascivious smile, eyes half-lidded.
He kisses her again, long and full of love, then, guided by the damp, inviting heat of her sex, he finally enters her.
The entry is slow. Deep. Taut with tension and release.
Esdras’s body tenses beneath him, her legs wrapping more tightly around his hips. A high-pitched moan escapes her, almost a sigh of bliss, as she feels every inch of him fill her, ground her.
— Oh… Thom… she breathes, her head falling back.
He groans softly against her throat, trembling with pleasure and emotion. His hips still once he’s fully inside. He doesn’t move. Not yet. He waits. He feels her throb around him, warm, alive, buzzing with restrained pleasure. But he wants her to have control, to choose.
His lips brush hers, then her temple, then her jaw.
— Tell me when you’re ready… he whispers. I’m here. All yours.
His hands glide over her belly, her hips, her ribs, her breasts — which he caresses slowly, his thumbs brushing the hardened peaks with infinite gentleness.
— You’re beautiful… So beautiful… I could die here, in your arms, and it would be a good ending.
Esdras laughs softly, a trembling breath, her fingers combing through Thom’s hair, eyes shining with an emotion too vast to name.
— Move, Thom… Now. Please.
He obeyed without hesitation, beginning slow movements of his hips — gentle, measured, deep. He entered and withdrew with an almost sacred care, as if he were writing his love into every thrust, every brush of their skin.
Their kisses became uncontrollable. They sought each other out, found each other — their mouths never parting. Esdras’s tongue danced fervently against Thom’s, their breaths mingling in a heat that wiped away the world around them.
Every motion of Thom’s hips was a declaration. He made love to her with fierce tenderness, with raw, contained love. His hands stayed on her like silent promises: I’m here. I love you. I’m not going anywhere.
Esdras let her hands wander down his back, caressing, tracing the lines of his tense muscles. Then, slowly, she began to scratch.
Not to hurt him. But to mark him. To express without words what her body felt — this overwhelming pleasure, this heat, this love. She clung to him with all her strength, anchoring him to her as if to keep him from ever leaving again.
Thom growled against her throat, picking up the pace just a little.
— Keep going… he groaned. Scratch me as much as you like.
— I can’t help it, she whispered, breathless. It’s you… You’re the one doing this to me…
And he kept going, over and over, like a wave that refused to pull back.
Time disappeared. Nothing remained but the room, their tangled bodies, and the electric tension pulsing through them like a fever. The rhythm grew more intense, without them even noticing — instinctive, visceral. Their initial tenderness gave way to something more primal, more animal. A hunger that no longer asked permission.
Thom moved inside her with renewed vigour, his hips slapping against her thighs, their skin crashing together in a symphony of wet slaps, gasps and moans. Sweat beaded on their bodies, drawing glistening trails over taut muscles, between shoulder blades, across the curve of her breasts, down their joined bellies.
Esdras’s hair clung to her temples and neck, soaked. She no longer tried to hold back her sounds — she moaned, panted, even cried out Thom’s name, her voice hoarse with too much pleasure. Her head fell back, eyes half-lidded and wet with tears of bliss. Her fingers clutched at the sheets, at his shoulders, his arms, seeking something solid in the storm.
— Thom… my love, I… ah! she cried, her voice cracking in her throat.
— I’m here, he murmured, though he was breathless too. You’re so… perfect. So beautiful when you let go.
Their hips met in a frantic rhythm — harder, faster. The bed creaked beneath them, their breathing tangled and erratic, like a storm with no end. Esdras no longer knew where her body ended and Thom’s began. She only felt him inside her, filling her, pulling at her with every thrust, and the fire rising, again, again, until it nearly burst.
But soon, their movements grew less coordinated, more desperate — they were tiring, yet neither wanted to stop. The need for a change, a new angle, a breath, became palpable. Their eyes met for a brief second, shining with desire, tenderness, and that silent understanding they had always shared.
Then, without a word, Thom slowed, pulled out gently, leaving Esdras to gasp, frustrated, still breathless. He slipped behind her, drawing her into a warm, reassuring embrace, pulling her close.
— Come here… he whispered against her ear, kissing just below the lobe, wrapping his strong arms around her.
She let him, letting out a breathless little laugh, her heart pounding wildly, relieved by the tenderness after the storm. Then she lifted one leg in a fluid motion — offered, soft, open. He slid a hand along her thigh to support her, the other resting on her belly, kissing the hollow of her shoulder.
— Take me again, she said softly, against his cheek. I want more, Thom…
And he obeyed. With a slow motion, he slid back inside her, their bodies perfectly aligned, pressed together. This time, it was different. Intimate. Fused. He entered her deeply, slowly, savouring every second, every tremble, every sigh he drew from Esdras.
She moaned softly, rolling her hips slightly to welcome him better, her hand seeking Thom’s on her stomach, squeezing it. Her other arm wrapped around the one holding her, like an anchor, a certainty.
— It’s… perfect like this, she murmured. I feel like we’re one.
— That’s exactly how I feel, he breathed against her neck. You’re… everything to me, Esdras.
And he began to move again. Slowly. Deeply. With every thrust, she arched a little more, her thighs trembling, her throat full of tender sighs, of little “oh”s moaned without restraint. The rhythm was slower, but charged with intensity — every stroke a step closer to a more controlled, more dizzying pleasure.
Their hands remained entwined, their bodies tangled. And in that position of utter trust, of burning tenderness, of loving possession, they continued their dance.
Despite the raw slap of skin, the sweat, the moans that no longer held back, a deep gentleness never left them. It was in the way Thom held Esdras, in his muffled murmurs in her ear, in his fingers gliding across her skin with an almost heartbreaking tenderness, even when he gave himself to her without filter.
He listened to her. He felt her reactions, her breath, the tension in her thighs, the little sounds she made each time he touched just the right spot. He was entirely devoted to her. His own pleasure became almost secondary — what mattered was her. What he wanted was to watch her fall apart in his arms, to see her bloom, to feel her surrender to him.
He growled softly against her neck, still holding her tight, and his mouth lingered there, at the base of her nape. He devoured her, alternating between burning kisses and wet bites, his beard rasping gently over her already flushed skin. And his hand, meanwhile, slid down her trembling belly, between her soaked thighs, to find her clit with the tips of his fingers.
— Just a bit more, my love… You’re so beautiful like this, so perfect… I want to feel you…
His words melt against her skin as he thrusts harder, his hips picking up a rougher, more insistent rhythm. He wants to make her come. He knows her. He knows exactly what she needs.
His fingers find her clitoris, fast and precise, working in time with his deep, powerful thrusts — brutal, yes, but never without that trace of reverence in every breath.
Esdras cries out, loud and unrestrained. One hand clutches the forearm that holds her tight against him, the other reaching to find his. Her mouth opens, gasping, no words, no air — just sensation. And then it rises. And breaks.
— Thom!… Ah—Thom…! THOM!
She comes with a long, trembling moan, her body shaking, her belly seizing in fierce spasms. Her back arches against him, her lifted leg going taut, and her hand tightens around Thom’s with such force her knuckles turn white. He stays inside her a moment longer, holding her through the crashing waves of her orgasm. He keeps caressing her, gently, his mouth buried in her neck, slowing his hips until he finally stops. Carefully, he pulls out, breath short, trembling, panting.
— You were… breathtaking, he murmurs, almost stunned by the intensity of what just passed between them. Absolutely divine…
Esdras’s eyelids are heavy, her skin aflame, but she smiles — content, radiant. And yet, she still feels something… The hot, pulsing erection pressed against her back. She hasn’t forgotten. She won’t leave him like this. Slowly, she turns to face him, kisses his cheek, then his chest. Without a word, she gently pushes him onto his back, her smile sly, playful — loving.
— Let me take care of you now, she whispers.
Thom looks up at her, eyelids half-lowered, eyes filled with love and a flicker of surprise. He nods, a tender smile curving his lips.
— Anything you want, my love…
She trails downward, her lips kissing every inch of his sweat-damp chest, drawing a fiery path to his lower belly. Then she takes him in her hand, stroking him gently at first, with her palm and lips, before finally taking him into her mouth. A deep groan escapes him, one hand diving into Esdras’s tousled hair.
— God… Esdras… She envelops him with warmth and care, no rush — only tenderness, passion. Her gaze lifts to meet his with every movement. She sucks him slow and deep, caressing his thighs, his belly, holding him right at the edge between surrender and bliss.
Thom’s moans grow louder, his breath quickens, his hips twitch slightly beneath her mouth — and that’s all it takes.
With a muffled growl, his muscles tense, and he comes with a hoarse gasp, his fingers tightening in her hair.
She takes it all, unflinching, devoted to him just as he was to her.
When she finally comes back up to him, Thom immediately wraps her in his arms, kissing her deeply, one hand stroking her hair, the other cupping her cheek — eyes still heavy with pleasure.
— I love you… he breathes against her lips.
— I love you too, Thom. Always, she murmurs into the crook of his neck, curling up against him, utterly spent and happy.
After the storm, the calm.
Thom’s breathing had settled some time ago. His hand rests on Esdras’s hip, palm open, fingers splayed with care, as though afraid she might drift away. He hardly dares to move — fearful of breaking the moment, this fragile bubble of warmth and skin pressed close. She’s there, curled against him, nestled in the hollow of his chest. And yet…
She isn’t asleep.
Her breathing is still quick. Not from exhaustion — no. But from something older, deeper. A silent tension that lingers, even in the stillness. Her eyes remain open, fixed on some unseen point in the darkened room, while her fingers trace soft, aimless shapes on the sheet.
Thom feels it.
So he doesn’t speak. He acts with the slow, careful patience of someone who knows that delicate things must be touched only with the heart’s edge. His hand glides down her back, from her shoulders to the arch of her spine. A steady motion, gentle, almost tentative. In these quiet gestures, he gives her everything he can. A promise without words: I’m here, I’m still here, and I’m not going anywhere.
Minutes pass. Esdras says nothing. She breathes, she listens. She feels.
Then, suddenly — almost as if by instinct, something raw and unlearned — she lifts a hand and lays it on his chest. Just above his heart.
Her palm is warm. Alive. Present.
It’s nothing. A simple touch. But it means everything. That touch says more than any speech. It says: I’m here. I’m staying.
Thom looks down at her. Watches her. Doesn’t speak. He simply lets his heart beat beneath her hand.
And then, in a whisper barely audible, she murmurs:
— You’re home here.
Her eyes remain open. But they’re different now. They no longer run.
Thom closes his, just for a moment. He pulls her closer, his forehead resting against her damp hair, a quiet smile playing on his lips. Nothing euphoric. Nothing rushed. Just a simple peace, given and received.
And for the first time, she didn’t try to control everything.
--
https://archiveofourown.org/works/65671414
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geekelfie · 5 months ago
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A Heart Left Behind
Written for @andersweek2025 Wistful Wednesday prompt Dream/Loss/Longing. Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Here Lies the Abyss AO3 Link
A Heart Left Behind
With Hawke gone, Anders spent more of his time wandering the local villages and offering healing where needed. He needed to be out doing something and that was one of the few things he was good at. It seemed to settle Justice a bit, since he was helping those in need and potentially forgotten by those in charge. 
Living in Rivain was nice. Not just the weather… but their view on Spirits and Possession was so different from Ferelden that he almost felt safe there. Almost. 
Long days of healing left him exhausted and opening the door of his one-room cottage felt like more effort than it should. Thinking about it, he’d forgotten to eat again as well. That was probably part of why he felt so drained.
It took Anders’ tired brain a minute to register the person sitting at the little dining table. A flickering candle in the centre of the table made it hard for him to initially see the person. For the briefest of moments his heart leapt into his throat, thinking maybe Hawke had returned from Skyhold. 
“Hey Andy,” Isabela’s smooth voice was unusually subdued. 
“Err… uh… Hi, Isabela.” Anders blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light in the room. He looked around quickly to see if there was anyone else in the cottage, before setting his staff aside and shrugging out of his coat. “What brings you to my humble abode?”
She waved an envelope in the air, then set it on the table next to a bottle of wine and a filled glass. “You have mail. I promised to deliver it personally.”
No one, except Hawke and Isabela, knew he now lived in Rivain. Most thought he was dead, though he’d become somewhat mythologized around Ferelden, and some claimed he was still alive. Whether he was a folk hero or monster depended on who you asked… but no one should have known to send him a letter unless it was Hawke. 
Another moment of excitement at the idea of hearing from Hawke, but then, with a heavy thud, his heart dropped like lead into his stomach. When he’d left for Skyhold, Hawke said he wouldn’t be sending any missives for fear the Spymaster or Commander would catch wind and find Anders. He was still a wanted man, after all. If Hawke was sending a letter, it must have been dire. 
Anders snatched up the envelope and flipped it back and forth to look for any identifiers. There were none. He ripped it open and pulled out a folded piece of paper. As he opened the paper, another folded note fell onto the floor. His eyes scanned the letter in his hands.
Hey Blondie,
Hawke told me that our Rivaini would be able to get this to you. 
I’m so, so sorry. Hawke has been lost. He entered the Fade with the Inquisitor and being the dumb man with a hero complex that he is, he stayed behind to buy the others time to escape. You know what he’s like. There would have been no talking him out of it. 
We don’t know if he’s alive or if there will ever be a way to get him…
He wanted me to make sure that, in the case of him not returning, you got this letter…
- Varric
The words began to blur as Anders read the letter. He hadn’t even realized he was crying until the tears started to stain the paper. Varric’s letter slipped from his numb fingers, floating down onto the table. Woodenly, he bent down to pick up the other letter. 
Settling heavily into the chair opposite Isabela, he slowly unfolded the letter from Hawke. It was hard to focus through the tears and he rubbed his eyes with his sleeve to clear them. 
My Anders,
That was all it took for him to lose any composure he still had. A broken whimper escaped Anders’ throat and his hands trembled. His grip wrinkled the edge of the paper and his tears ruined the ink.  
I never thought I’d be writing one of those “if you’re getting this letter, it means I’m gone” letters but here we are… Please don’t be cross with me. I had to go. I know you’ll understand. Eventually. After you stop being mad at me. And you’re allowed to be mad at me. I’d be mad at me. I probably am mad at me. If I’m not, I’m an idiot, for how could I do something that could hurt you so?  But you can’t stay mad for too long… 
There’s nothing I can say that will make this not hurt… I don’t know if I’m dead or just missing in action… so I don’t know if saying “I’ll find my way back to you if it kills me!” will mean anything or just sound hollow… maybe I tried and it did kill me… 
Some of the dry ink was smudged, a testament to Hawke’s own tears as he wrote the letter. 
Anders, I need you to know that I love you. Lost or dead, I will always love you. Every quiet moment with you in my arms is worth all the pain we’ve been through and all the pain to come. 
Wherever I am, I know I’m thinking of your smile, your laugh, your bad puns, and everything else. I know I’m counting down the days until I see them again, whether I’m trapped somewhere or dead… I know I’m waiting for my chance to see you again. 
And do not take that to mean you should go out and do something rash to join me. Please, Andy, keep living. Keep helping people. Keep rescuing cats. Maybe you could name one after me? Find a big brown tabby cat and name him Garrett.  
There was a small section that was illegible. It looked as if Hawke had just left the quill on the paper and ink soaked through in a large blob. 
I don’t know what I really want to say with this… I don’t know if I wrote this to make myself feel better, or for your sake… 
Please find happiness. Find happiness in the small things. Please do not let this close you off. Please, please don’t spend the rest of your life alone.
I’m going to stop this before I just ramble…more than I already am… a part of me feels like if I just keep writing, time will stay still and this letter will never have to reach you. We can be frozen in this time of me just waiting to get home to you and you waiting for me to return. For me to scoop you up into a hug that won’t be our last…
I love you, Andy. Remember that. Use that to keep carrying on. 
Forever and always yours,
Garrett.
The only sounds in the room were Anders’ sobs and the sputtering of the candle on the table. He dropped the letter to his lap and just stared at it numbly. A million thoughts raced through his mind but he couldn’t grasp any of them. Everything was fuzzy and he was so cold. 
“He was always such a fool. Always jumping into things without thinking.” Isabela’s voice broke through the buzzing in Anders’ ears. It quivered, as if she was trying to hold back tears. 
“Always thought he’d die rescuing a puppy from a burning building,” Anders mumbled. His mouth was dry, it felt like he was talking around cotton. 
“Here,” Isabela said from next to Anders. He startled, not having heard her get up. He looked up through damp lashes to see her holding out the glass of wine that had been on the table when he’d arrived. 
“You know Justice doesn’t let me drink. Hasn’t for years.” He rubbed at his eyes and sniffled. 
“Fuck Justice,” Isabela growled. 
“You sound like Hawke,” Anders said quietly. He picked the letter up from his lap. He smoothed it down on the table and stared at the words. I love you, Andy. His body shook as he held in another sob. 
He felt arms wrap around his shoulders as Isabela grabbed him in a tight hug. He let his head drop, resting it against her bosom, and cried. She held him for what felt like forever as he cried into her shirt. 
He finally wiggled out of the embrace as the tears stopped. He felt like he was out of tears. Now, all that remained was the numbness. 
“I think I need some sleep.” The words came out slowly, each one a struggle. 
Isabela smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes, and nodded. “Sure, Anders.”
She helped him up and followed closely as he walked over to the bed, as is ready to catch him should he collapse. He nearly did collapse onto the bed. He would have if he’d been alone. 
“Hey, Bela… thanks,” Anders mumbled as she pulled a blanket up to his shoulders. She responded with the sad smile again.
“Of course.” She gently brushed hair away from his cheek, where the salt of tears had plastered it. “I’ll check on you tomorrow.”
He didn’t respond, burying his face in his pillow. 
“Oh, and since you won’t have any, I’m taking the wine!” He could tell Isabela was trying to put a lighter tone in her voice, but it couldn’t hide the hoarse scratch from her own attempts at holding in tears. He knew he should comfort her as well. Hawke’s loss wasn’t just his to bear… but he hadn’t the strength. 
“Take anything you want," he said quietly, his voice heavy with defeat. At that moment, he felt like there was nothing in the world he wanted. Everything had been taken from him. The last thread that held him together was gone.
There was a small click as the door closed, announcing Isabela’s departure. Anders considered that maybe he shouldn’t be alone, but what was he going to do? Even if he was considering ending things, his body felt like lead. Every movement was a fight and he just didn’t have the ability to fight anymore.
Curling onto his side, he grabbed Hawke’s pillow. He hugged it to his chest and face, picturing Hawke in his mind. He tried to focus on memories of him smiling, of them laughing together or cuddled up in front of the fire…
The last time he’d screamed with such anguish was when he’d killed Karl. He thought nothing would hurt as much as that moment had. It was as if he’d cut out a part of his own heart. 
He was wrong. 
Losing Hawke was worse. 
It wasn’t just losing a part of his heart, it was losing its entirety.    
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just-prime · 1 year ago
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Tales of Squandered Potential
Oh hello again everyone who follows me for my Star Wars ranting!
So! Tales of the Empire. The Hat Man is at it again.
Episodes 1-3 : The Path of Boredom
As expected, all of the Morgan stuff was not my thing. She was boring in Ahsoka, she was boring here. The entirety of the three episodes just hammered home "this lady is angry" in a way that felt overdone because there is no arc. There's no growth, no interest, no nothing. It all just feels like Filoni trying to retroactively make his one dimensional character that gets killed off in the stupidest way possible feel super badass. However because we know that she gets killed in the stupidest way possible, everything falls flat and none of it feels earned. It also doesn't actually answer any of the many many questions that Ahsoka raised about her. She's just there, standing in front of a fire. That's all she does.
Thrawn is there for all of about two seconds, and every moment of it is painful, because here's the thing. WE KNOW WHAT THRAWN WAS UP TO AT THIS TIME!!! We have the book that explains all of Thrawn's many exploits as an admiral. This is only more evidence for the idea that Filoni has never actually picked up any of the canon Thrawn books. Which we kinda already knew, but this is all but confirmation. As I've previously said, and will continue saying, Filoni needs to contextualize Thrawn as a 100% big bad otherwise his Heir to the Empire fanfilm won't actually feel earned, so he is systematically destroying any and all nuance that Thrawn has had to make sure that new viewers only ever see him as an unredeemable evil.
And I know that there are a lot of you out there who are holding out for the possibility that this is all a misdirect by Thrawn! That this is all part of his grand plan to go back and help the Ascendency, and that he's lying to everyone about his intentions. But the sad truth is that Filoni doesn't give a rats ass about anything other than cartoonishly evil Thrawn which means we're never getting Eli, or Karyn, or Hammerly or any of the characters from the six fantastic canon books that Timothy Zahn so lovingly created. That was made very clear with Filoni's prioritization of Admiral Pellaeon, who for those who don't know is actually in the new canon Thrawn books too! He wasn't just left behind in Legends, Zahn brought him back into canon too! But again, being the Legends fanboy that he is, Filoni doesn't care about where Pellaeon should be canonically, so instead he's just shoehorned into the episode for no other reason then Filoni likes him.
Episodes 4-6 : The Barriss Content
Soooooo, why didn't Barriss get a full fucking season to herself??? I get the idea behind the 15 minute episodes, but it really makes it hard to tell any sort of cohesive story. It works far better as a snapshot of a couple of days in someone's life. So unfortunately, while I did enjoy them, Barriss's episodes felt really rushed and I found it really hard to tell when things took place. How long was she at the Inquisitor training center? Was it a day? Was it a month? Really would have been interested in actually seeing the inner workings but it all has to get brushed over in favor of her becoming an Inquisitor. A seemingly intentionally not named Inquisitor which makes me feel like they've run out of early Inquisitor names. Unless there's a trial period before you get a proper number? I don't know it was just one of those things that niggled at me. Another thing that niggled at me (which was also mentioned by the wonderful artist @stealingpotatoes, go give her art some love) is that her design is kinda boring as fuck? Like, you have Birdy-Mc-Skullface right there with such a neat design and yet all Barriss gets is a motorcycle helmet with very slight voice modulation.
But I digress. The fact that Barriss commits herself to the Inquisitorium via a ritualized fight to the death, and then goes "wait, the red light saber wielding, all black wearing, Darth Vader serving inquisitors aren't here to help people?" before immediately bailing is so funny to me. This girl cannot for the life of her commit herself to an organization without becoming disillusioned within 1-3 business days.
I'm not sure how I feel about it all being about Lyn? I was very much rooting for her to totally die in the ice shafts instead of what felt like a very last minute redemption arc?
Though speaking of the last episode...HOLY SHIT OLD BARRISS IS FUCKING HOT. *coughs* Excuse me. Anyway. I would have loved to see more of what happened in between eps 5 and 6. Seeing how she and the jedi kid escaped the planet, and where the two of them did after than in the very hostile Empire would have been a facinating story watch play out. Also, who is this female friend that Barriss is referring to when she sends the child away? Is it Ahsoka??? If it is...WHY WOULD YOU NOT SHOW US THAT REUNION??? Like I get the whole point of this is to set up Barriss to make the jump to live action like every single other Filoni character is curseddestined to do, but also you've had people waiting years to find out what happened to Barriss and it feels like they burned their biggest story possibility on a throwaway reference. Did she find Ahsoka? Did Ahsoka find her? When did they find each other? Was it pre-Rebellion? Was it after Ahsoka was already functioning as Fulcrum? Given that we now know the Fulcrum name originated from Anakin, did Barriss recognize the name and seek this mystery person out? I don't know it just feels again like more wasted potential.
Final Thoughts
Fuck this animation is good now! Can we get a new writer?
Like, even for the shit I was annoyed by, the entire show just looks fabulous. It makes me really really wish that ANYONE other than Filoni could make content in this style. Let the writers of Jedi: Fallen Order and Survivor do a Merrin episode or a baby Cal episode. Or the people doing The Acolyte, let them do Tales of the High Republic! Let anyone other than Filoni have a chance to create within the world of Star Wars animated content.
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solavellanparadise · 7 months ago
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Queen Inquisitor never cry
I've started this as a reply to an another post, but it suddenly got so long, that I decided to post it separately.
It's a longreed on a lot of main theses that I disagree with, considering Lavellan romancing Solas and Inquisitor in general.
They are: - Many people tend to depict it so that Lavellan's life was completely ruined by the Dread Wolf and all she does - is spitefully crying in the farthest corner of the world; - There is an abysmal inequality in power dynamics between Solas and Lavellan; - That the only thing that defined Inquisitor Lavellan was her connection to the Dalish, and once she erases her vallaslin and learns the true story and tells everyone she had fallen in love with the Dread Wolf (honestly, why would she even need to talk to anyone about this fact?), she is forever alone (look at the first thesis); - Inquisitor doesn't have any personality about them at all.
p.s. sorry for any mistakes, eng is not my mother's tongue
___________________________________________________________
Well, if ALL of Lavellan's life is twisted around one man - it's really sick. It doesn't matter who that man really is in such case. But I really doubt that such a weak person would've survived being the Inquisitor in the first place. For 14 years! The thought that she would've laid down in an embryo pose and started endlessly crying and pitying herself for years is really bizarre to me. Inquisitor to me still has some personality, and even the gentliest and kindest one still sits on her throne like she means it, she still grits her teeth and gets the job done, makes tough decisions and doesn't cry about them to anyone really. VARRIC of all people tells her that she is imposing and she herself can't even imagine how much so. So, for me she's a badass herself.
She has to learn A LOT about the world outside roaming wilds in aravels in really short time. And she has to be smart and quick thinking to do that in the first place, to be natural in that. She has to be natural in a lot of things, giving the opportunity, and oh she gets a lot of them! She's the main hero, after all.
About vallaslin - for me it's like even if at first she thinks that somehow it's her fault that they broke up because she decided to leave it, or if she feels bare for lacking one, if she agrees to erase it, it can't be a decision that drags her down for the whole 14 years, it's crazy. She. Has. Things. To. Do. Thedas relies on HER to fix everything back to normal or even make it better. So even if grieving, she had a lot of serious distractions from it.
Besides, in the Veilguard she mentions, that she always felt that Solas was sad. Always, even when they should've been happy together. And after Trespasser the "why" should've just clicked in her mind, that the breakup really wasn't about her at all, at least not because any of those silly reasons mentioned above. If he could've stayed, he would've. But if he did, it would've meant that he just dumped more than millenia of struggles, countless lost lives just to be with her. Is this a really good trait for a lover to have? On the contrary - with such determination to see his cause through after all this time, Lavellan can rest assured that he will hold onto their love no matter what for an eternity. That's admirable.
About him using her. He uses any Inquisitor. And frankly I'm not seeing the whole terror of that. If he didn't, the world would've ended. So what's the point to be pissed about it? She did what she had to, he did the same. It's not the destination that is important here, it's the journey and shared memories between all members of the Inquisition of that time. Believe me, he had as much of a head ache from the constant revelations, as Inquisitor did. They're actually quite similar on that part.
The whole separated from her people part. She was one of the first ones to learn that her people now are just a mere blurred shadow of the "real" thing they tried to pursue, that she and all of them got EVERYTHING wrong. She's been an Inquisitor for four years when she learned that. If anything, she had to find a way to spread a word to her people, let them know what's coming, unite them somehow. And we see that she was successful to some degree! I believe that Veiljumpers are the product of her enlightening work. Also the Chantry's influence is eased a lot (we don't hear much about it during the game), people are less afraid of the spirits, not a single abomination during the game, a lot less demons around. The girl's been busy!
And let's be real. After experiencing being in the romantic relationship with someone who is nearly a god, being loved by that someone, would you really be able to relax and settle down for someone else? Someone lesser? People blissfully love and worship gods one sidedly, and in her case she actually had her feelings returned back.
But that's not my main point. What I want to say, is that despite everything, Inquisitor is the only one capable to hold the South Thedas from collapsing from double blight just long enough for Rook to fix things and save the world. Even with disbanded Inquisition. That takes some nerve, power and respect from kings, queens, lords, ladies and all other in position of power. Crybaby can't achieve something like that. And if anything, it just may be the other way around - there is no one else who is more worthy of her. She is not a victim, she has mind and power of her own. She is not a saint - she made her own bad decisions, ones where there was just no good decision, she sent people to die many times, decided who to die so the others would live (in the magnitude of hundreds or thousands). If she lived long enough holding the mantle, she would've turned into a villain herself surely. And by leaving her alone for 10 years, Solas just enabled her to find her own answers, establish her own world state, to become much stronger, if anything, she should be thankful that he did what he did and didn't interfere.
And when she decides to go with him it's just as relieving to her as it is to him. If she stays, people will expect her to restore South. She may be the best woman to do so in the world, but she doesn't really owe anything anyone anymore.
Any Inquisitor, no matter who they romanced, is a powerhouse on their own, thus Inquisitor Lavellan can't be lesser than that a priori. Not even because she happened to fall in love (mutually, I might add) with the Dread Wolf himself.
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scarfacemarston · 5 months ago
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Cullen Rutherford Modern AU Hc's!
I highly recommend reading my background on Cullen first. It will make more sense. Also tagging inquisitor for roleplay options but I'll roleplay with any character! Feel free to also send requests for Modern Au Cullen.
* He lives alone in a humble flat with his dog Walter and a few house plants given to him by Josephine. She insists that outside of Walter,  caring for another living being would give him a sense of purpose. Unfortunately, he does not have a green thumb and has had only minor success. Additionally, his flat has next to no decor and its cleanliness depends on how he's feeling mentally and physically. It's never filthy, but it can become disorganized...despite the lack of extra decor.
* He originally named his dog Frank, but the dog wouldn't answer to it. He started mentioning the most boring stereotypical names that poor boy knew "Reginald, Rufus, George, Charles and even Ringo". It was when he threw out the name Walter that the dog started to wag his tail. Beware if he has children with your Inquisitor, he is rather traditional with his names so he may need to be exposed to different names.
* He doesn't think about love very often. Outside of him missing his military friends, he doesn't view himself as lonely, but he secretly finds himself longing for domesticity, a hand to hold, someone to come home to, someone to wake up to….but noooooo, he doesn't want that at all. /s
* Speaking of, he's pansexual. He realized he was attracted to all genders but was extremely shy and never actually pursued anyone. However, he is not a virgin. He's never had sex with someone he's felt an emotional, romantic bond with, but to him, it was more of scratching that itch and mutually beneficial action. Having romantic sex will blow his mind, and once he experiences it, he's never going to want to have sex any other way again.
* He knows it's boring, but he's a meat and potatoes guy. He will not apologize for loving a Sunday roast, too. If a British "Pub" is nearby, he will gorge himself at least once a month, even if it's the shittest excuse of a pub. It's better than nothing.
* Loves music from the 40s and 50s -again, something he picked up from his grandfather. He secretly would love to try swing dancing, but he doesn't have a partner and doesn't know if he could ever admit that he wants it. Sometimes, he'll play Frank Sinatra in the background while working on paperwork he definitely wasn't supposed to bring home….
* He's terrified someone will find out he's a "Junkie." He tries to hide his symptoms the best he can, but there are days when he can't get out of bed due to a fever, chills, and nausea. Leliana tries to encourage him not to use those sorts of terms and to be kinder to himself.
* He misses having his camaraderie in the military, but he questions how true it was. The military, especially special forces, form special bonds that no one else can understand. He always felt different from his fellow soldiers, especially when he became commander, but it's still something he misses.
* He has a wonderful singing voice, and he has been heard singing songs that the "Crooners" sang. He has occasionally been heard humming in his office and his co workers have complimented him on it. He just goes red in the ears, but he appreciates the compliment nonetheless.
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sidneysussex · 2 months ago
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For Cole: i deserve a happy ending.
This honestly made me think so much (and all of it was delicious; I’m so grateful for this @dadrunkwriting prompt). I love writing Cole from the outside, but I’ve never gone into his head before and it was incredible.
Cole sits above the gates, watching. The brim of his hat shades not just his eyes, but most of his face, giving him a covering veil of shadow behind which to hide his thoughts. His legs dangle over the edge, warmth of the sun-struck stone seeping in behind his knees and along his calves. Legs are a strange thing, he thinks; they don’t seem as though they ought to hold bodies up, like the slightest breeze should topple a person forward and back, and yet they don’t.
Skyhold is almost empty now, the nobles vanished back to their estates and the soldiers to their barracks, wherever those might be. There’s a strange feeling in Cole’s chest, as though he’s lost, but what it is he’s lost—or who has lost him—he doesn’t know. He feels hollowed out, like Skyhold itself, the furniture and trappings of the Inquisition removed from him, leaving bare spots in him, free of dust and oddly bright where the everyday parts of him are comfortably faded.
Even as he thinks it, another group of laughing people passes through the gate, carrying carved wooden chairs and overfilled chests and all manner of things the Inquisition needed once and is now shedding like a heavy coat in the spring sunlight. Skyhold is a shell, the Inquisition a living thing inside it, and Cole wonders—has this thing they’ve built died or only outgrown its home?
He wonders the same of himself. Would he know? Or would the Fade reclaim him, just as he is now, real and unreal merging and melding, a bright spark only he himself can see?
He hears a voice nearby—not spoken, but felt—and, moments later, a warm presence touches his. He knows this one, worn and weary, all threaded through in gold and blue.
Cullen comes to stand beside him as though taking up a post. It fits, Cole thinks, like the armour he still wears even now. The Inquisition may no longer be responsible for holding up the sky, but Cole knows that, as long as there is a sky, Cullen will carry it on his shoulders.
“This must feel very different,” says Cullen with a smile, weak and wistful, and Cole knows he doesn’t mean it. Or at least, if he means it, he doesn’t realize. It’s a thrown rope, a bridge, something Cullen says only so that he can say another thing, a bigger thing, like each thought he has is transparent and only by layering enough of them over one another can he make them real.
Cole understands the feeling. He, too, is often transparent, layering himself into thoughts and feelings until he becomes real.
“Feels like fading,” Cole says thoughtfully. “Like finishing, but the sky doesn’t end.”
Cullen blinks. Cole is expecting a question, or perhaps to be asked to speak about something else, but neither comes. Instead, Cullen asks, “What will you do?”
Cole doesn’t think that way, in lines of time and truth and intent. The question brings with it a sense of the ephemeral, as though anything Cole says will be true for this moment only and, in the next, he might be anything, anywhere. Right now, the warm stone tethers him to the earth, drawing his roots down into the depths of Skyhold’s history, until they reach the place where what he was and what he is diverge. If he lets go…
“I don’t know,” he says, because it’s true and because he doesn’t understand the question and because he knows that Cullen, too, is searching for a tether.
For those who have joined the Inquisition along its journey, this is natural—a shift, a change, from one world to the next—and their departure is as much joy as it is sorrow. Cullen is not one of them. As far as any man can be, Cullen is the Inquisition—more than those who began it, more even than the Inquisitor who led it. Each person who enters Skyhold’s gates becomes Cullen’s responsibility and each person who leaves is a stone pulled from his foundation. Who will he be when all the stones have been taken?
The smile on Cullen’s face becomes softer, more genuine. “Neither do I.”
Cole says, “It’s lonely.”
“What is?”
“Leaving,” says Cole. “Losing, looking forward, looking for something new. It starts so small and finishes just the same. Was it ever more?”
Cullen sits down beside him, letting the stones’ stored sun warm him, ground him. It’s a rare gesture from someone built to stand tall, a precious thing because it means.
“What do you think?” Cullen asks and means that, too.
Cole looks at him, searching. In many ways, he and Cullen are the same—formed in fire, faded in flame, until they were forgotten. Where there is neither peace nor purpose, Cullen finds one and Cole the other. But is that all they are?
His question echoes back to him. Was it ever more? Were they?
“I think,” he says, and looks deeper, climbing the walls Cullen has built—and everything, to him, is a keep, a tower, a cage—not to enter, but to sit on them and warm himself in the pale sun. There’s an answer there, not his own and perhaps not Cullen’s either, but it’s something Cullen has kept here nonetheless and that makes it matter. “I deserve a happy ending.”
He understands it better then, hearing it the way Cullen does. Not a folk tale, not a song, not a story that follows rules that should be instead of the ones that are. Just an ending that asks nothing of Cullen, that doesn’t leave him whole but hollow, a lantern in late autumn.
Cullen says, “We all do.”
“What happens?” Cole asks. “In a happy ending?”
“Well,” Cullen says, “I suppose that depends on you.”
Cole says, “What’s yours?”
Cullen’s answer is silent, a lance through the weak light. It’s hungry, haunting, this thing inside him, laughing and longing, the ghost of an old song hidden behind a smile. He knows the old song, even if he doesn’t know it; Cole can hear it sometimes, in his mind, in his bones. Cullen tries hard to forget, so Cole doesn’t talk about it.
Instead, he says, “Skyhold is different now.”
Cullen says softly, “It must be strange, not hearing everyone and everything at once.”
“It was made for great deeds,” says Cole. “Great and terrible and necessary. But it’s not that anymore.”
It isn’t only the fortress Cole is talking about.
“It’s almost empty now,” says Cullen thoughtfully.
Cole tilts his head as if listening to a sound beyond the edge of hearing. “Some of them are still here,” he says. “Some of them want to stay.”
The shape of Cullen’s thoughts shifts at that—a lake, a dock, the quiet darkness. Sanctuary. He doesn’t say the word. Cullen wouldn’t want him to; it would crack the fragile shell that surrounds this peaceful place inside him and let the world claim it, like everything else. But Cole knows—has always known—the silhouette of Cullen’s hurt, sharp-edged and severe, held inside himself so that the cuts bleed only where no one can see.
You could stay here, he thinks, but it’s the wrong answer. It won’t fix the hurt; it will make it worse, because Cullen’s one uncompromising truth is that what he wants and what he can have are always separated, two constellations reaching for one another across an empty sky.
Cullen reminds him of another man—not the templar, but the mage; the first, failed, feared. Like him, Cullen has the old song in his blood, not by birth, but by necessity. Like him, Cullen has been filed away, forgotten, freed from one prison to fill another. Like him, Cullen has wounds that bleed, and bleed, and bleed, and never heal.
When they met, Cullen would not have thanked Cole for the comparison. Today, he might understand.
“This is a refuge now,” he says, speaking to the mage in his memories, to the soldier at his side. “It needs protection.”
Cullen says, “You think people will stay even when the Inquisition…?”
Cole hums. “Lingering, longing,” he says. “Last and lost, but they found something here. It can be safe. You could make it safe.”
“Skyhold doesn’t need me,” Cullen says. “I’m a soldier without a war, Cole.” It isn’t said with sadness or self-pity, only resignation, threadbare and comfortingly familiar, like the mantle that covers his armour.
“You could be something else,” says Cole quietly. “I was.”
“I don’t think it’s that easy.”
A group of Cullen’s recruits passes under them, almost in formation, but not quite; for a moment, it’s like they’re going to war, shields raised and muscles taut, but then they pile the shields on a waiting cart and turn back, unprotected. Cullen sits up a little straighter as he watches them, and Cole wonders—does he know he has already changed? The soldier fits him well, but Cole can see the way the outline of it settles around him, can see it’s something he wears, not something he is. Not anymore.
Cole says, “I could show you.”
Cullen looks at him and there’s a long moment of silence. Time moves in lines here, but Cole feels for a moment like if he reaches out, the Cullen he touches will be the one that arrived here so many months ago, hopeful and frightened and hurting and needing and standing so far, so far away from everyone else in the middle of the courtyard, in the middle of the crowd. Cole found him then, too, but the walls were too high, the sun too fierce, everything old and far away and edged in furious blue.
He could be something else. They both could.
“Will you stay?” Cullen asks him. “At Skyhold.”
Cole says, “I can help here.” It’s a question, even if it doesn’t sound like one, because nothing is as sure as it should be, because these are the times when this world is like the other, shifting and shining, ready to be shaped. This is a fortress, but its gates are open and unguarded. It could be something else.
Cullen says, “Then perhaps I can, too.”
Is this a happy ending? Cole wonders, soft and sun-gold. Is it enough?
He knows there are no answers for questions like these. He knows there are hurts too old, too important, for him to change. But right now, beside him, Cullen is warmer, somehow, brighter, solid enough to stay.
It’s a beginning.
Cole thinks most endings are.
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treviso-nights · 4 months ago
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─── ・ ˚。 ⟡ 🌑 ⟡ ˚。 ・ ────── ・ ˚。 ⟡ 🌑 ⟡ ˚。 ・ ───
how art thou fallen from heaven - solrook // chapter 3
fic summary: when rook first ends up in the regret-prison with solas after a nightmare, he taunts her, and she responds in kind. one way or another, solas is going to realize: varric chose rook to stop him for a reason. what he isn’t prepared for is how his enemy makes him feel. has the dread wolf finally found someone to abandon his plight for? (spoiler alert: the answer is no.) a true enemies to lovers tale. chapter word count: 4k chapter summary: we're building tension, y'all!!! rook ends up in the fade-prison before weisshaupt. deep in her feelings, she catches solas at a good time and they finally, at last, have a real conversation. read on AO3
─── ・ ˚。 ⟡ 🌑 ⟡ ˚。 ・ ────── ・ ˚。 ⟡ 🌑 ⟡ ˚。 ・ ───
“Don’t worry about me. Worry about the people you’ve recruited and about the people depending on you. I never lost the friends who had gotten me through it all. Ultimately, they’re the ones you can really count on. Do right by them, and you’ll find your way.”
The Inquisitor’s words persist in her mind, leaping off its busy and cluttered edges as she sprawls on the chaise lounge in her room. Even so, the thrill of encountering Inquisitor Lavellan is still an echo that hums in her blood—Lavellan, who is as kind and lovely as the springtime’s first morning dew. Nonetheless, the passage of time has still not diminished the same woman's fierce reputation, nor her reputation for tenacity and resilience in a world that no longer values her prior accomplishments and Dalish elf identity. 
Rook touches a fingertip to her own pointed ear. As a Crow, she has been taught to forsake her past—to disappear into her instruction until she resembles a refined, perfect weapon capable of cutting through the most difficult of adversaries. 
Indeed, her very survival as an assassin remains predicated on the idea that she always becomes who she needs to be, however unlikely or challenging. And if she is being honest, Rook is suited for the work. There is bliss in the wiping of a slate. There is even a kind of… cleansing of the self that Rook finds addictive. It is as if she is a snake, shedding her skin when a new contract demands it—demands she leave the old skin behind for good—
—Which is what troubles her now. There is a binding around Rook, the phantom touch of a great maw closing around her. Now, coiled around herself at the Lighthouse, there is no other contract she can disappear into. There is no catharsis in awakening each day as the reluctant leader of a movement she is forced to inherit. 
For a moment, as she’d peered into Inquisitor Laavellan’s face, she had felt seen—even understood—by a woman thrust into a role she did not want and one that did not fit her skin. Just as Rook has inherited a responsibility—a strange, unfamiliar personhood that also did not fit her skin. 
She is tired.
She is tired and constrained, unable to alchemize herself into someone who is prepared for it all. Someone who can gaze into the evil, putrid depths of the blight around her and not shake. Someone who can bind themselves to a skeleton that isn’t theirs, no matter how stifling the bony spurs feel. Someone who has golden words that can save her teammates despite Rook feeling as though she has not stopped swallowing poison since the ritual. 
The shimmering, swirling waters of the aquarium in her room dance upon the honey-hue of her skin as she somehow descends—accidentally and without meaning—into the darkness.
And endless pool of midnight smooths over Rook as she continues to sink into its quiet depths. For once, the darkness is just that. Quiet. Tepid. Without all of the anguish and horror of her nightmares. At any other time, Rook thinks she would be grateful for such an emptiness. 
However, as Rook blinks her eyes open and scans the muted, crumbling environment of the Fade-prison, she finds there is also a terrible emptiness already within her. For several long moments, Rook’s gaze slices into the ground by her feet. 
There is no more thought. No more frustration, fear, and fury at the prospect of a dead and blighted world.
Just an absence of it all. 
When Rook does lift her head, she finds Solas pacing slowly across the great divide between them. And for the first time in her career as an Antivan Crow, Rook goes slack, foregoing the most basic of lessons: remain alert.
Instead, Rook sits. Her inhales are slow while she settles onto the ground, cross-legged. The stale air nips at the inky cascade of her hair, which hangs loose by her breasts.
Solas, both hands clasped behind his back per usual, shuffles back and forth in straight, elegant lines that most Crows have to train to emulate. His body is lithe and fluid on its own—one cheek protruding from where his tongue pressed against it.
Rook says nothing, content to watch. 
Eventually, Solas turns to her, clearing his throat. “My apologies,” he says, offering a polite smile. “I was deep in thought when you… arrived.”
If he is surprised by her posture, unprofessional as it is, he gives nothing away. “Not a problem,” she says, ice-green eyes blinking. “I unexpectedly fell asleep, so the intrusion is my fault. The blood magic is yours,” she rumbles. “But we see a lot more of each other than we probably wish to.”
At this, Solas does pause, one sleek eyebrow rising high. “I see. Well, then. I suppose you are forgiven for intruding.”
She doesn’t know why, but Rook does not fight the smile that suddenly illuminates her face.
Another pause, this one longer than the last. Solas’s amethyst gaze begins to swim with unabashed curiosity. “Perhaps you have an update for me? Something I can help with?” His hands, unclasped, fall to his sides. 
“Unless you wish to return back to the Lighthouse, that is.”
The wind tugs at her once more, and Rook closes her eyes at the sensation. It isn’t like the real wind or even the odd, magically tangy breezes they encounter at the Lighthouse, but Rook finds that she doesn’t care, so long as the rivulets of movement continue to dance upon her skin. 
“The Grey Wardens say the blight is different now,” she replies, tipping her head back. Waves of hair shiver against each cheek. “Do you have any thoughts about that?”
Above, the hum of energy crackles gray and emerald while Solas replies. “I would imagine a great many things about the blight will have changed now that Ghilan'nain has the means to personally control it at will. Have you collaborated with the Wardens to investigate the alterations in its behavior?”
One of Rook’s lips curls up at the question. “We have,” she said, flicking her gaze back to Solas. “The First Warden did not appreciate the effort. Regardless, we go to Weisshaupt soon.”
Rook watches as the Dread Wolf nods to himself. Once. Twice. “As I feared,” he said. “You cannot defeat Elgar’nan and Ghilan'nain without the Wardens. What will you do?”
The idea of doing anything is the problem, Rook thinks to herself. How is one to do anything when there is only emptiness—only obligation, burrowing deep and puppetering her limbs around Thedas as if she is anything but an unrefined blade fracturing against the might of those who see all and do nothing?
“I only sealed the Breach because I had people like Cassandra, Leliana, and Cullen with me from the start. Without Dorian’s magic and Josephine’s diplomacy, we never would’ve come together to stop Corypheus.”
Echoes of the words seep through Rook’s ears, swirling through her skull on the odd, tickling breeze.
“Ultimately, they’re the ones you can really count on.”
Rook will do what she always has to. What is required of her. What the contract demands. 
Rook wonders what Solas sees in the steely, pale-peridot depths of her eyes as their gazes fix on each other. Does he see resolve there? Desperation? A blankness, where determination should be? 
“Do right by them, and you’ll find your way.”
Yes. Inquisitor Lavellan’s words ring particularly poignant in that regard. 
After several long moments of silence, Solas nods to himself again, and she knows he is satisfied with whatever burns beneath the surface of her skin.
There is also something else—a strange recognition in the way he tilts his head; in the way his amethyst eyes narrow, as if he can hear her thoughts. For all she knows, he can. At any other time, the idea would bother Rook unendingly. 
But right now, Rook, still sitting cross-legged on the crumbling ground, only zeroes in on his further scrutinization of her. She lets him look his fill. 
Shoveling a hand through her midnight hair, Rook then inhales deeply, the prison’s scent of stagnation coating the back of her tongue. “I met with Inquisitor Lavellan this morning.”
At once, Solas’s affable expression evaporates at the change in subject—if only for a heartbeat. Shock, cold and abrupt, cracks across his eyes in a flash of vulnerability before he can compose himself. The unsteady churning in his violet gaze even seems to stutter, guttering out before picking back up again. 
Curious.
“I can only assume it was a fruitful meeting,” he eventually replies, inclining his chin. “Considering how the wisdom of experienced and seasoned leaders often proves invaluable when one does not know where else to turn.”
Rook’s subsequent exhale is heavy and unrestrained. Any observant Crow worth their training would have already pounced upon and exploited the obvious weakness in Solas’s shock—would have picked and squirmed under that accidental opening to see what lay beneath. 
But Rook is tired. And so she does not ask him why he reacted like that at the mention of Inquisitor Lavellan. She does not ask if they were involved or voice suspicions of a brief romance long since soured. She does not goad him in any way. 
Rook simply sits, leaning her elbows against her knees as each fingertip continues to untangle the knots in her long, midnight hair.
If she were in better spirits, Rook would have laughed at the loud, glaring confusion sluggishly perfusing across his face. His bewilderment is soon a palpable entity in the Fade, tugging at her. 
Absently, Rook can visibly see Solas struggle to adjust—to better correspond to her mood, just as an Antivan Crow accommodates their targets, conforming to their ever-shifting whims, desires, and dispositions. For once, she also wants to see him stop pretending. Rook doesn’t even know what that would look like. She thinks it would be interesting.
But Creators only know if Solas is capable of such release.
She nods, first to herself, and then in affirmation of what Solas had said. “Speaking of fruit and wisdom, the herbs you prescribed worked.” Ice-green eyes flash to his. “At least, I think they did. I don’t remember seeing you in the past fortnite or so when I’ve taken them.”
“No. We have not spoken in some time.” Rook observes how the corners of Solas’s mouth turn down. “It has been a fortnite since we last met?”
“Mhm.” A pause. “Based on your reaction, I’m going to assume you can’t track time from here.”
Solas’s eyes are momentarily glacier in appearance. “You assume correctly. I suppose it is yet another uncomfortable reminder of my powerlessness whilst the Evanuris remain unleashed upon the world.”
Rook’s laugh is a misplaced tinkling in the grungy desolation of the Fade-prison. Solas, upon hearing it, goes still.
“Come now, Fen’Harel,” she chuckles, though not unkindly. “When have you ever been powerless? I may be hard-headed, but even I know better than to ignore your wit as the Dread Wolf’s most powerful tool.”
A heartbeat of contemplation allows for the sudden mirth in Rook’s ice-green eyes to eddy and flounder, dimming them. “And despite your arrogant preconceptions, I am not so young and ignorant as to forget you still have a one-way connection to me,” she says, tapping a temple. 
A blast of wind tugs a curtain of inky hair across one cheek. Their gazes heat across the abyssal chasm between them, Rook making no move to tuck away the frantic strands. 
At any rate, Rook is the first to relent, her gaze making several more sweeping passes of the Fade. Nothing in particular even registers for her—nothing new. It remains a landscape of gray and stasis, decay and unease. Only the multi-faceted, cool lavender of Solas’s eyes seems to be of any consequence, outshining all of the corrosion around them.
“Convenient though it may seem,” Solas replies, “I am unable to sense more than subconscious impressions at any given time. Occasionally, an extreme emotion can trickle in through the bond, but I am no more a ventriloquist than you are with your allies.”
The emptiness inside her hums with amusement. Rook’s lips twitch. “Your glibness does you no credit. Fine—maybe I should check in with my allies more. What were I to do if they grew lonely? What if they stopped being able to tell the time?”
“I imagine they would survive by other means,” Solas counters. And there is the distinct sensation that he wishes to roll his eyes but refrains. 
Rook wishes he would.
Sighing, she leans back on her hands, tilting her exposed throat to either side as she stretches the muscles there. “All right, Solas. Tell me something, then.”
Another quirk of his eyebrow belies Solas’s curiosity.
“I stand a good chance of dying at Weisshaupt,” Rook clarifies, her inflection flat and even. “Tell me something that’s not a lie. Something no one else knows.”
“How would you be able to trust anything I did choose to share?”
Rook’s easy grin is another strange and oddly placed gesture. “I’m a Crow. I’ll know if it’s the truth.”
Her grin widens when Solas swallows, folding each arm over his chest. “Is that so?”
“It’s so.”
The thrill of victory trails its fingers across her skin as Solas begins to pace once more. She leaves him to his thoughts, wondering if she actually is capable of discerning the truth when it comes to the Dread Wolf. How does one detect the lie of an entity thousands of years older than she? After all of this time, is there anything honest still left inside him?
How long does one have to live for until everything inside them turns to stone?
And so it is with great surprise that Solas begins speaking at all, capturing Rook away from her thoughts.
“For a time, in the midst of my rebellion against the Evanuris,” he begins, lilting accent curling in the air, “I found that my magical abilities began to change.” Peeking out from a peripheral, Solas’s gaze is probing, watching her.
Rook shifts on the ground, ice-green eyes focusing in response. “Oh? How so?”
A sad, soft emotion flickered over Solas’s face. “At some point I realized I was unable to cast healing magic.”
The sharp tang of Rook’s earlier recognition seeped into the back of her throat.
“Fen’Harel, liberator of the oppressed,” Solas chuckles bitterly. “Fierce in his protection of the enslaved, and yet utterly incapable of performing a single recovery spell.” His next inhale was slow.
“The Dread Wolf—revolutionary and emancipator. To some, a savior , even,” he muttered. “But, for a time, never the Healer. Never the Mender. It was as if the very essence of who I wished to be turned its back to my face.”
His eyes turn particularly haunted then, and the shadows there are deep—the memories, even more so. Chills silently work themselves up both of her arms as she continues to listen. 
How truly lonely must he be to share this with her? His adversary?
“No matter how hard I tried or how often I anguished, it was still to no avail. At a certain point, the only thing I could surmise was that I had changed in some inexplicable but profoundly significant manner.” He speaks slowly, emphasizing each syllable, as if he is tasting the truth on his lips for the very first time.
“I could not heal.”
Rook considers this for a lengthy moment, frowning. “No one knew? Not even your friends?”
Wordlessly, Solas shakes his head.
“I can’t imagine not being able to use my daggers,” she murmured, more to herself. “I can’t imagine losing a part of myself like that.” Long lashes framed her eyes as she brought her attention back to Solas, idling beside the great abyss before them. 
“How did you cope? How did all of that make you feel?”
Solas pales at the question, causing shock to bloom in Rook’s chest. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look so pained.
Not even during the ritual. Or after it.
“I felt like…” he trails off, the lavender of his eyes swirling with an ancient, tumultuous emotion. 
Then, coming to a standstill and facing her, grim determination proceeds to etch itself along the ridges of his nose and mouth. 
Rook smiles in commiseration. “Did you get a little too honest there?”
Unexpectedly, Solas’s lips stretch in a grin, though the echoes of his past still obviously linger within the tense angles of his face. “Perhaps a little.” Tilting his head to the side, he adds, “I wonder if you would extend me the same courtesy, if only to alleviate the endless suffering being imprisoned and unable to... tell the time provokes.” 
The sarcasm is not lost on her, and the tinkling sound of Rook’s laughter sounds off the desolate aura of the Fade-prison in fresh, silver-tinged decibels. “I suppose that’s fair,” she concedes, “Seeing as how I’m probably dead soon, anyway.”
At that, Solas’s grin deteriorates a little, but Rook waves him off. “One truthful thing?”
“Only the one.”
Only the one. 
No such thing.
Still, the words come easily. Far more easily than she would have anticipated.
“I did not want to lead the Veilguard,” Rook confesses, and the words themselves are an instantaneous balm against the emptiness in her chest. She blinks, slowly absorbing that private sensation. “I still don’t,” she adds. “Nor have I ever. And I was pretty angry at Varric for suggesting it in the first place.” Their eyes appraise one another once more. 
“And by extension, you, I suppose. Though you already know how angry I am at you for everything.”
“That I do,” he counters, smirking. “I wonder what about the mantle of responsibility chafes you the most? Have the Crows, in their training, not prepared you for such a position?”
“Creators,” Rook swore, ducking her head. “Don’t let Viago hear you say that,” she grumbles. 
The dimple in Solas’s chin flexes. “Ah. Your Grandmaster.”
Rook swipes at her hair, smoothing it behind her shoulders. “It’s not about the Crows. It’s about me. I have a contract. I have a target. But I don’t have a skin,” she muses, the words dissipating into the air. When the breeze returns, Rook leans into it, allowing its fingers to brush upon the planes of her face.
“And every assassin needs a skin.”
Understanding enters Solas’s expression. “And you are not yet sure what that skin should look like?”
Rook shakes her head, grimacing.
Ironically, this only causes Solas to chuckle. “I remember what that was like. I’ll be honest. The never-ending, frenetic urgency of youth is not something I think I will ever miss.” 
“I would imagine that in your decrepit, all-consuming old age, you have forgotten what it’s like in the first place.”
Exchanging momentary scowls, the darkness of their expressions eventually flattens, and both Solas and Rook share a smile. The temporary warmth in their eyes clashes across the gaping, dark jaws of the chasm. The chasm itself waits patiently, the eerie, mysterious depths within like a ravenous belly. Waiting for something to fill it.
“So, it is easier to cover up your pain with indignance and sarcasm?” Solas queries, no doubt referencing Rook’s historic vitriol against him.
She is tempted to laugh again. She lets herself. “Something like that. I really do find you arrogant and insufferable, but that’s besides the point. I never asked to lead. The minute Varric heals from his injury, I’m forcing him to retake his rightful role.”
“A solid plan as any.” Solas stills, sticking his tongue to a cheek. “How does he fare?”
Rook cocks her head in thought. “About the same.” Frustration suddenly hardens the playful curve of her jaw, and her brows lower. “When is he going to get better?” she demands. “He’s been out of it for awhile now. We anticipated that his recovery would be slow since he was stabbed with the lyrium dagger”—and at that, her eyes narrow to slits—“but it still feels like it’s been too long. I’m starting to get worried.”
“Based on what you’ve reported about Lace Harding, I don’t think any of us were anticipating how the dagger would affect those in its proximity. Give him time,” Solas urges, his voice soft.
The emptiness inside her abruptly curdles, squeezing her guts. That softness—that specific tenderness—has never sat right with Rook. She still isn’t used to Solas being soft and doesn’t like how it smothers all of the sharp, important indentations of things. Important things. There is no good reason to trust his answer and especially because it is Varric, and if Solas is capable of stabbing him in the first place, why wouldn’t he let Varric die?
Still… hadn’t she and Solas just spoken as equals? Had they not just proved, even for an instant, the possibility of an honest and mutually vulnerable allyship?
Does she really have to go back to feeling something other than hollow and quiet again?
That vast emptiness begins to stir, and Rook exhales noisily, pressing a palm to her sternum. She doesn’t miss the way Solas’s expression closes up, like a doorway.                   
“Tell me one more thing before I go back,” she implores. The ice-green in her burns a little while longer, resembling two whirpools, clustered to the surface of a frantic, silver sea.
Solas, with his polite and affable expression, has little else to offer—that much she can see on his face alone. There is only a fraction of vulnerability within reach, where the ridges of his brow crease near his nose.
When he doesn’t say no, Rook slowly leans forward, wrapping both arms around her knees.
“Before, when you were telling me about changing, about what it felt like to realize you could no longer heal…”
The creases at his brows suddenly deepen.
And somehow, Rook manages to keep her own face as open as she can, though it is difficult and disregards many years of Crow training to do so. “Will you tell me now?”
Rook isn’t sure what she expects. Perhaps a refusal. Perhaps that he wouldn’t answer at all. So, it is with unending shock that Solas’s gaze cracks fully open once again while answering, and she feels as though she is falling into the amethyst, drowning in its hooded shadows.
“Ghillan’nain,” he breathes, shuddering. “I felt like Ghillan’nain.”
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danaduchy · 8 months ago
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Garrett Hawke had always been a man on the run. He had fled Lothering with his family, run from one crisis to the next in Kirkwall, and finally, he ran from himself after that fateful day in the Chantry. Hawke’s decision to put the knife in Anders' back haunted him.
He'd never spoken of it, and the people who had seen it—the ones still alive—were more likely to nod in grim agreement than raise a fuss. Anders had been reckless, dangerous. He had chosen his path, and Hawke had chosen his. But even if his companions agreed that the mage’s actions had left them with no other choice, Hawke couldn’t convince himself of that. Anders had been his friend. More than that, he had been the man Hawke loved. That knife was as much a betrayal as it was a judgment. When it slipped between Anders’ ribs, it was Hawke who bled.
He thought that one day, perhaps, he would have to pay for that act. So when the Seekers finally arrived, the weight of inevitability pressed against him, and he greeted it almost gladly.
But as it turned out, the Seekers didn’t want his blood. They wanted his help.
At first, he was almost disappointed. How was it that everyone seemed to think that he, Garrett Hawke, the man who lost everything and everyone he tried to protect, could fix their problems? He had failed his sister, his brother, and his mother. He had failed Anders, too, in a different way. He had tried to be the Champion of Kirkwall, and all he had become was a symbol of the city's fractures.
"You want me?" he said to Cassandra, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, though there was no warmth in it. "You think I’m the right choice for whatever mess you’ve got? I’m the man who couldn't even save his family."
Cassandra’s expression was as stony as ever, but there was something softer in her eyes. "The Inquisition needs someone who understands sacrifice. Someone who knows what it means to fight for something greater than themselves, even when it means losing. You have done that, Hawke, whether you believe it or not."
The words stung, cutting deeper than he expected. For a moment, he nearly refused. It would have been easier to let them drag him off in chains than to put his life on the line again for a world that seemed determined to tear itself apart. But there was a flicker of something in him—maybe defiance, maybe a desperate need for some kind of redemption—that made him agree.
"If nothing else," he told Cassandra, "it’ll get me out of this damned city."
Kirkwall held too many ghosts, anyway. He was ready to leave them behind, even if he couldn’t escape the shadows they cast.
Varric offered to come with him, of course. The dwarf lounged against the bar, a smirk on his lips that Hawke knew all too well. "You know I can’t let you go running off into trouble without me. Think of all the material I’ll miss out on. Hawke, the hero turned inquisitor—it’s got a certain ring to it, don’t you think?"
Hawke rolled his eyes, but there was a warmth there too. They both knew the real reason Varric was coming. The dwarf had always been good at making light of things, spinning humor out of even the darkest moments. But Hawke knew Varric’s smiles were often a mask, just like his own. He was worried, though he’d never admit it.
"More fodder for your stories, right?" Hawke shot back with a lopsided grin. He tried to keep his tone light, but the weight of what they were about to do pressed down on his chest. This wasn’t just another adventure. They were stepping into a new war, one that promised to be as brutal as anything they had faced in Kirkwall.
As they left the city behind, Hawke couldn’t help but look back over his shoulder, at the jagged skyline of the place that had been both his refuge and his prison. He thought of the people he had known there, those who had died and those who had stayed. He thought of the blood that stained his hands and the ghosts that followed him still.
The journey to Haven was a long one, but as they traveled, Hawke felt a strange sense of weight lifting from his shoulders. Out here, in the cold and open air, the world seemed bigger. The sky stretched out infinitely, and for the first time in years, he felt like there might be room to breathe.
But there were no illusions of grandeur. Hawke knew himself too well. He had never been good at being the leader others wanted him to be. He was a blunt instrument, a blade rather than a shield. Yet, there was something about the way people looked at him in Haven, as if he could actually be the savior they needed.
In those early days, the Inquisition was a fragile thing, held together by desperation and hope. When he stood before the soldiers and scouts, telling them that they would take the fight to the Breach, he saw their eyes light with something dangerously close to faith. It was disconcerting—he, of all people, should have been the last one anyone believed in.
But somehow, he found himself doing it anyway. Leading. Fighting. Trying to be the man they thought he was, even when he doubted every decision, every order he gave. He put on the mask of confidence, of strength, because if he faltered, the cracks in the Inquisition would become too wide to mend.
And then there was Dorian.
When Dorian arrived, Hawke’s first thought had been that the last thing he needed was another mage with a flair for theatrics. He had known Tevinter mages—selfish, arrogant, wielders of power that too often bent toward cruelty. He still remembered the likes of Danarius, who had scarred Fenris beyond recognition. He didn’t expect much from Dorian, expecting the same haughty superiority and hidden malice.
But Dorian turned out to be something else entirely, and it unsettled Hawke more than he cared to admit. There was a confidence to him, yes, but it was tempered with a surprising wit and a willingness to poke at Hawke’s carefully constructed walls. The Tevinter mage saw through him almost immediately. It was infuriating, how easily Dorian could unearth Hawke’s insecurities with a well-placed jibe, that sly smile playing on his lips as he did so. It was as if he enjoyed the challenge of cracking through the Champion’s cynicism.
"You have that look again, Hawke," Dorian would say, lips curling in that ever-present smirk, "like you’re contemplating whether to punch a wall or recite a brooding soliloquy about the darkness of the world. Both would be terribly predictable, you know."
Hawke would glare, but he couldn’t quite hide the amusement tugging at his mouth. "And you’d prefer I wax poetic about how the light in your eyes reflects the firelight, Dorian? That’s more your style, isn’t it?"
Dorian would scoff, but his eyes would soften in that way Hawke had come to recognize—a moment of genuine amusement that was all the more precious because it was real, unguarded. And for all their verbal sparring, Dorian stayed. He saw the weight that Hawke carried, the way he drove himself to exhaustion to keep the Inquisition from falling apart. Dorian never tried to offer sympathy, never pushed too far when the shadows of Hawke’s past loomed large. Instead, he simply stayed by his side, offering a steadying presence in a way that Hawke hadn’t realized he needed.
In the quiet moments between battles, when the camp settled into a wary rest and the Breach burned like a sickly green scar against the night sky, they would share drinks and trade stories. Hawke would find Dorian’s gaze lingering on him, a complexity there that made him feel raw and exposed. It was a look that seemed to ask questions without demanding answers—questions Hawke wasn’t sure he could ever answer. He wasn’t used to that kind of scrutiny, the way Dorian’s gaze seemed to cut through his defenses without ever pushing too hard.
It made him think, just for a moment, that maybe he didn’t have to carry this burden alone. That maybe, there was room for something other than duty and guilt.
But it was too early to hope for things like that. He had let himself believe in the possibility of something better once, back in Kirkwall, and he had paid for it in blood. So, he kept those thoughts buried beneath layers of armor, both literal and otherwise, and focused on the task in front of him. There was a war to fight, and he couldn’t afford to let his guard down.
Yet, when Dorian would laugh at one of his dry remarks, or when he’d place a hand on Hawke’s shoulder with a casual familiarity that made Hawke’s chest ache in ways he couldn’t quite understand, he would catch himself wondering—just wondering—if maybe this time could be different.
For now, all he could do was fight, leading the Inquisition against the chaos that threatened to consume the world. He fought with a desperation that was both familiar and terrifying, but he fought alongside people who believed in him, even if he couldn’t understand why. And Dorian was there, at his side, sharp-tongued and unyielding, a reminder that there might still be more to life than just fighting and surviving.
Maybe, if they managed to survive all this, Hawke could let himself think about what came after. But for now, he kept his eyes on the Breach, on the next battle, on the lives he had sworn to protect. And he prayed that this time, when it all came crashing down, he wouldn’t be the one left standing amidst the ruins, blood on his hands and guilt heavy in his heart.
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rannadylin · 6 months ago
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Veilguard: Ranna's Rook intros!
Waaaay back in November, I might have posted a time or two about my first Rook? Since then I've been a bit distracted from Tumblr by, uh, playing three more of them. XD I just started the fifth playthrough so I'd better pop in and show some Rooks off before I get too far into this one and forget how to blog again!
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Possibly mild spoilers to follow along with pretty pictures and very brief summaries beneath the cut...
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Caeda Mercar, Shadow Dragon rogue who romanced Lucanis (alas, yes, she saved Treviso at the expense of her home Minrathous! worth it. She did also flirt a bit with Davrin early on when Lucanis was still being shy about it, but basically I started the game thinking I'd probably romance Emmrich and then Lucanis spited right out of that Ossuary cell and through a gaggle of Venatori in five seconds flat and Caeda went all heart eyes and set her cap for him irrevocably.) Started out more of an archer rogue (usually one of my favorite DA playstyles) but halfway through she started leaning more toward daggers. We'll assume that was her favorite Crow's influence. (Or that Ranna was figuring out how to play XD)
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After Caeda I jumped straight back into CC to make...
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Veryl Ingellvar, Mourn Watch mage who romanced Emmrich. Whereas Caeda had the first-playthrough honor of just picking whatever dialogue options I felt like at the time, so she had a pretty broadly mixed personality, this one specialized in what, in ages past, we would've called Blue Hawke personality. :-D Very golden-retriever, Miss Positivity, etc. (She reminded me of Violet Itzli sometimes. :-D) I thought she'd be a staff mage but then I fell in love with orb & dagger so she did a lot of that too, though not as much as the yet to come 4th playthrough would...
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Next up we have:
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Akish Thorne, Grey Warden Warrior who started out sword & board (throwing shields is fun!) and switched to mostly two-hander (when I realized you can still throw the shield even when you're not apparently holding one!). He romanced Bellara (who reminded me of Yolotli Itzli from the moment I met her :-D ...Akish is not exactly Anselm though), and if Veryl was a Blue Hawke Rook, Akish was mostly Red Hawke, except for being a big softie whenever it came to Bel. (Also, for his endgame I played through once with Neve doing the wards on Tearstone and then again with Bellara and...I like that second one better. Oh the narrative parallels between him being a blighted Warden and then seeing Bellara get blighted but survive it too! Also I like Bel better for that part of endgame in general; it's a bit of character development - her moving from seeming more of an innocent to someone who has survived something pretty massive and draws strength from it to save the day in the end! - that she just needs more than Neve does.)
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Other than Bellara, Akish's favorite thing in the world is griffons. :-D Also his eyes are supposedly violet though the screenshots make it hard to tell.
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I had plans to play an Adaar Inquisitor in DAI but never got around to that playthrough before burnout hit so Akish is my first Qunari OC and I had such fun with him!
Next up: I just finished playing Rook Number Four:
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Arucari "Rook" De Riva. Yes, Rook is short for Arucari. :-D She romanced Lucanis because, um, it appears that he is my Daeran for this game (i.e. I played WOTR 7 times through one summer and romanced Daeran for three of them. Guess I've got at least one more Lucanis romance to go this time around. XD) She is a mage because I missed playing as a spellblade, and a Crow because it is technically the Crow Spellblade specialization, and because I wanted to see how romancing Lucanis with another Crow went. (Conclusion: It went spectacularly! She was such fun.) She was my Purple Hawke girl, always teasing and deflecting with humor anytime things are awkward, but also generally positive beneath that. Also she got extra-large eyes in homage to DA2 elves. :-D Here is a better view of them:
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She is an excellent Crow. No one ever expects assassination from anything this cute.
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And last but not least...
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Linza Laidir is my 5th playthrough, just barely begun! Go Team Dwarf. :-D (Team Dwarven Rogues, to be specific! We gained a Neve just after this screenshot and dear Neve has never looked so tall, being surrounded by Children of the Stone.) Don't know yet if she will be more of an archer rogue or a daggers rogue, whichever lends itself more to Gold and Glory, of course! Not sure yet about her personality (probably swinging between Blue and Red Hawke types? She did beat up everyone in the bar to get Neve Gallus' location, whereas most of my Rooks have talked the bartender down. But I think despite a knack for highly effective violence she's also a sweet little Team Mom who will be teaming up with Lucanis and Bellara for the cooking. And probably romancing Davrin. (Was I inspired by Antoine & Evka's elf/dwarf dynamic? No comment.)
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So clearly I'm enjoying Veilguard overall, and from the factions & romances I've played so far, I rank them as follows:
Grey Warden
Crow
Shadow Dragon
Mourn Watcher
And...
Lucanis <3
Bellara
Emmrich
Which. Considering I went into the first playthrough expecting to fall for Emmrich, is interesting to see how it actually played out so far! Also, clearly I need to play a Warden for my third Lucanis romance, right? :-D
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